THE  SOWING  OF 
ALDERSONCREE 


ET  •  P  •  MONTAGU 


<&&** 


THE 
SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 


I  THE   SOWING   OF  I 


ALDERSON  CREE 


BY 

MARGARET    PRESCOTT    MONTAGUE 

Author  of  "  The  Poet,  Miss  Kate  and  I  " 

&  & 

^j.  With  Frontispiece  by  <fy 

W.  T.   BENDA 


.  NEW  YORK 

THE  BAKER   &  TAYLOR   COMPANY 
•9* 

^v  UNION  SQUARE  NORTH 


Copyright,  1907,  by 
MARGARET  PRESCOTT  MONTAGUE 


Published,  March,  1907 


The  Plimpton  Press  Norwood  Mass.  U.S.A. 


MY  FATHER  AND  MOTHER 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  Ax  THE  MAPLE  SPRING  STAND 9 

II.  AMABEL  LAMFIRE 30 

III.  THE  MOULDING  OF  JUDITH  CREE 41 

IV.  FIGHTING  FIRE 52 

V.  ROBERT  REDDIN  PLANTS  His  CORN         ....  70 

VI.  A  YOUNG  MAN'S  FANCY 94 

VII.  IN  THE  BACKWATERS  OF  LIFE 106 

VIII.  A  DREAM  OF  FRESH  EARTH 122 

IX.  A  HAPPY  MAN 135 

X.  THE  SHADOW 148 

XI.  ANOTHER  CORN-FIELD 160 

XII.  THE  DRAFT  GOES  TO  PREACHING 176 

XIII.  THE  MEETING 189 

XIV.  ADRIAN  BLAIR  FLINGS  DOWN  HIS  GLOVE     .     .     .  205 
XV.  A  MATCH  FOR  LOVE 216 

XVI.  HATE  PLAYS  A  CARD 230 

XVII.  ELLEN  DAW  SAYS  FAREWELL 243 

XVIII.  THE  REASON  FOR  THE  HOUSE 260 

XIX.  THE  PLAYERS 274 

XX.  THE  WORD  FROM  ALDERSON  CREE 283 

XXI.  THE  VICTOR        308 

XXII.  THE  END  OF  THE  GAME 325 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

CHAPTER   I 

AT  THE  MAPLE  SPRING  STAND 

TT  was  early,  early  of  an  October  morning  in  the 
-*•  Jumping  Creek  Draft  —  a  certain  little  lost  valley 
cuddled  away  among  the  West  Virginia  mountains; 
so  little  and  so  lost  that  by  day  it  showed  as  hardly 
more  than  a  wrinkle  in  the  genial  old  face  of  the  blue 
Alleghanies.  Day  had  not  yet  begun  to  break,  but 
already  the  air  was  touched  with  the  smell  of  dawn, 
and  the  vigorous  promise  of  oncoming  light  and  vivac 
ity.  The  moon,  in  its  splendour  of  autumnal  fullness, 
swung  low  in  the  West,  attended  by  one  lone  star 
which  flashed  a  glorious  defiance  to  the  prospective 
morning.  If  it  had  been  light,  and  the  landscape  not 
blotted  out  in  fog,  one  could  have  seen  the  valley 
checker-boarded  all  over  with  tumbled  worm  fences  — 
their  outlines  blurred  with  blackberry  vines  and  sassa 
fras  growth  —  which  separated  the  small  holdings  one 
from  another,  with  here  and  there  a  sombre  little 
cabin  —  the  kernel  of  its  homestead  —  glimpsed  at 
through  a  haze  of  apple  trees  and  improved  fruit. 

And  if  a  giant  had  taken  his  great  thumb  and  rubbed 
all  the  trees  off  the  mountains,  as  a  ruthless  child 
brushes  the  fuzz  from  a  butterfly's  wing,  he  would  have 

9 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

laid  bare  many  more  of  these  little  dwellings,  hidden  in 
the  hollows  and  clinging  to  the  tops  of  the  mountains; 
but  on  some  of  the  ridges,  the  wildest  and  loneliest,  he 
might  have  rubbed  very  long  before  uncovering  any 
thing  (and  doubtless  in  the  end  his  thumb  would  have 
been  very  full  of  prickles). 

On  this  particular  morning,  upon  the  small  porch 
of  one  of  the  cabins,  whose  hewn  logs  had  weathered 
long  since  to  a  soft  greyness,  the  giant  might  have  seen, 
without  troubling  himself  to  rub  away  many  trees,  for 
the  house  hung  upon  a  somewhat  bare  prominence,  a 
little  boy  jumping  up  and  down  in  the  moonlight  and 
kicking  his  toes  —  copper-rimmed  stogey  toes  they  were 
—  together,  for  this  before- daylight  atmosphere  was 
chill. 

It  was  Alderson  Cree's  cabin,  and  the  active  figure 
of  boyhood  dancing  there  was  David  Cree,  sent  out  to 
the  porch  to  await  his  father,  who  settled  indoors  with 
Kip  Ryerson  before  taking  David  on  the  deer  hunt 
promised  for  that  morning. 

Of  all  boy-ages  perhaps  twelve  is  the  least  interesting, 
being  the  intermediate  stage  after  babyhood,  and  before 
any  of  the  future  possibilities  of  manhood  have  devel 
oped  themselves.  And  I  do  not  know  that  David  Cree 
was  any  exception  to  this  general  rule;  yet  perhaps 
some  people  would  have  been  struck,  in  the  first  place, 
by  the  sturdiness  of  his  small  figure,  giving  promise  of 
great  strength  to  come,  and  then  by  the  alertness  of 
his  face,  and  flash  of  his  quick  dark  eyes. 

A  faded  slouch  hat  sat  upon  the  back  of  his  head, 

10 


AT  THE  MAPLE  SPRING  STAND 

and  a  cotton  shirt  of  the  hickory  variety  disappeared 
into  blue  overalls,  which  in  turn  were  tucked  into  the 
stogey  boots ;  a  costume,  on  the  whole,  none  too  warm 
for  a  nippy  morning  before  sun-up.  David,  however, 
had  his  own  opinion  of  boys  who  took  to  coats  before 
the  middle  of  October,  and  much  preferred  for  warmth 
the  jumping  up  and  down  method. 

In  couples  the  boy  held  by  a  chain  two  perfectly 
matched  hounds,  of  the  rather  rare  blue-speckled  colour 
ing,  much  esteemed  in  the  Jumping  Creek  Draft;  while 
tied  to  the  yard  fence  was  another  great  dog  —  white, 
this  one  with  tan  spots  —  who  yawned  chilly  now  and 
again,  and  seemed  scarcely  interested  in  anything  that 
might  be  about  to  happen. 

In  front  of  the  boy  and  dogs  the  valley  lay  steeped 
in  mists  of  a  silver  fleeciness,  and  across  all  that  won 
derful  opal  tinting  the  Drupe  Mountains  opposite,  big 
and  little,  shouldered  each  other  darkly  in  the  moon 
light.  At  the  back  Peter's  Ridge  drew  a  fierce,  straight 
line  across  the  sky.  Suddenly  from  this  ridge,  cutting 
the  clear  air  vibrant  with  the  expectancy  of  sound,  and 
breaking,  as  it  spread  among  the  hollows  into  a  rainbow 
of  scattered  echoes,  came  the  exquisite  full  note  of  a 
hunter's  horn.  The  three  hounds  sprang  against  their 
collars,  choked,  coughed,  and  then  gave  tongue  joy 
ously.  The  boy  put  his  own  cow's  horn,  hanging 
across  his  shoulder,  to  his  lips,  and  sent  a  glorious 
response  across  and  across  the  valley,  to  be  pursued  by 
the  wild  baying  of  his  dogs,  and  of  others  upon  the 
ridge. 

u 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

Impatient  as  the  aroused  hounds,  David  danced 
again.  Why  couldn't  his  father  get  done  with  Kip 
and  come  on?  There  were  the  Henderson  boys  on 
the  way  to  their  stand  now,  and  there  —  yes,  there  was 
Silas  Blair  blowing  up  at  the  Divide,  —  that  was  Rosy 
and  Ring  answering  —  and  there  were  the  squeaky 
young  voices  of  Silas's  two  pups.  David  knew  every 
dog's  mouth  all  up  and  down  the  Draft,  almost  as 
well  as  he  knew  the  mouths  of  his  own  three. 

Well,  they  might  bring  out  any  dog  they  pleased,  he'd 
bet  they  couldn't  any  of  them  outrun  old  Buck,  and 
he  cast  an  affectionate  glance  at  the  great  dog  by  the 
fence.  As  he  did  so  there  came  suddenly  from  within 
the  house  a  burst  of  men's  voices  sharp  with  anger, 
and  all  at  once  the  door  behind  him  was  dashed  open 
and  Kip  Ryerson  flung  out  —  his  evil  face  more 
sneaking  and  wicked  than  ever.  David  caught  his 
black  look  and  grinned  in  malicious  triumph,  for  he 
hated  Ryerson,  and  was  not  afraid  of  him.  He  was 
answered  by  an  appalling  oath  from  the  man  as  he 
passed  him  and  slouched  out  of  the  yard.  Instantly 
the  boy's  face  went  white  and  his  eyes  burnt.  Like  a 
streak  he  leaped  from  the  porch  and  caught  up  a  jagged 
wicked-looking  stone.  But  it  never  flew  at  the  man's 
unconscious  back,  for  as  David's  hand  went  back 
swiftly  his  wrist  was  caught  in  a  sudden  grasp.  Tighter 
and  tighter  the  grip  closed  upon  him,  until  slowly  his 
fingers  opened,  and  the  stone  dropped  harmlessly  to 
the  ground. 

In  a  fury  David  whirled  upon  his  father.  "He 
12 


AT  THE  MAPLE  SPRING  STAND 

cussed  me!"  he  cried.  "He  cussed  me!"  his  voice 
shrilling  with  anger. 

"An'  I'll  skin  yer  ef  I  ever  ketch  yer  thro  win'  er 
stone  at  er  feller's  back  ergin.  Don't  ever  do  anything 
ter  er  man  till  yer  big  enough  ter  do  hit  ter  his  face." 
His  father's  voice  was  low  and  somewhat  heavy,  but  it 
held  no  lack  of  purpose. 

For  a  moment  they  looked  into  each  other's  eyes, 
the  two  faces,  man's  and  child's,  singularly  alike,  and 
singularly  determined  in  expression.  Then  Alderson 
Cree  dropped  his  son's  wrist  and  turned  away,  realizing, 
perhaps  for  the  first  time,  what  a  duplicate  of  himself 
the  boy  was.  Taking  up  a  clumsy,  old-fashioned  rifle 
which  leaned  against  the  door-jamb,  he  dropped  it  to 
his  shoulder,  and  stepped  off  the  porch. 

"Come  on,"  he  said  briefly;  and  the  boy  and  dogs 
fell  in  obediently  behind.  As  they  took  their  way 
Indian  file  up  the  rugged  little  path  leading  to  the  top 
of  Peter's  Ridge,  David  watched  Ryerson's  loose  figure 
fade  into  the  heavy  mist. 

"Reckon  he  won't  come  back  an'  skeer  mammy  an' 
ther  kids?"  he  ventured. 

"Reckon  he'd  better  not,"  his  father  answered  in 
the  same  slow,  heavy  voice,  yet  somehow  David  held 
no  longer  any  fear  for  his  mother  and  the  children. 
He  had  the  same  confidence  in  his  father  that  he  had 
in  himself,  and  at  that  time  his  confidence  in  himself 
was  unbounded. 

There  was  something  in  the  man's  arrogant  unafraid- 
ness  and  physical  power  that  found  answer  in  the 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

boy,  and  he  felt  a  keen  exultation  in  his  father,  and 
wished  eagerly  that  he  might  have  been  in  the  house 
when  the  settlement  with  Ryerson  had  taken  place. 
But  at  the  beginning  of  it  all,  his  mother  had  hastily 
given  him  his  noon  snack,  and  a  sharp  push  towards 
the  door,  a  push  not  to  be  disregarded. 

It  was  a  settlement  that  had  promised  for  weeks  past ; 
ever  since  Alderson  Cree  found  out  the  character  of 
the  man  he  had  consented  to  board.  And  when,  the 
night  before,  David  had  returned  with  his  father  and 
mother  from  preaching  to  find  Ryerson  in  a  drunken 
sleep  upon  the  kitchen  floor,  and  the  younger  children 
who  had  been  left  at  home  almost  hysterical  with  fright, 
he  had  known  that  the  settlement  would  come  next 
morning.  And  so  it  had.  And  oh!  but  he  was  glad! 
Glad  that  Ryerson's  weak,  hateful  face  would  not  be 
there  to  leer  across  the  supper  table  at  him  to-night. 

For  a  whole  month  Ryerson  had  boarded  with  the 
Crees,  and  for  a  whole  month  David  had  hated  him. 
Why,  childlike,  he  never  troubled  himself  to  ask;  but 
there  were  good  enough  reasons  for  his  aversion.  In 
the  first  place  Ryerson  came  from  Rattle  Snake  Run, 
which  lay  on  the  other  side  of  Peter's  Ridge,  somewhere 
among  the  Clear  Creek  Mountains,  the  inhabitants  of 
which  were  a  whole  cut  below  the  people  of  the  Jump 
ing  Creek  Draft,  or  at  least  so  the  Draft  people  thought, 
and  perhaps  in  their  heart  of  hearts  the  Rattle  Snake 
Run  folks  thought  the  same. 

Ryerson  had  been  tempted  over  into  the  Jumping 
Creek  neighbourhood  to  work  at  Ed  McAdams's  saw- 

14 


AT  THE  MAPLE  SPRING  STAND 

mill  —  an  institution  which  had  brought  in  several 
curious  characters,  and  had  carried  out  very  many 
noble  trees. 

That  he  was  an  alien  from  his  own  home  draft 
would  have  been  cause  enough  for  hatred  with  an 
intense  little  nature  like  David's,  but  more  than  that, 
after  the  first  day  or  so,  David  knew  like  a  flash  that 
his  father  also  disliked  him.  Added  to  all  this  there 
was  as  well  a  far-away  rumour  that  Ryerson  was  wanted 
in  Virginia,  where  he  had  worked  before,  for  the  killing 
of  a  man.  But  that  was  away  over  in  Virginia,  and 
was  nothing  more  than  a  rumour  anyway.  Yet  Ryer- 
son's  personality  was  not  one  to  carry  off  such  a  report, 
and  perhaps  public  sentiment  was  best  voiced  by 
George  Hedrick,  the  storekeeper,  when  he  said,  "Ef 
Kip  Ryerson  ain't  er  murderer  I'll  be  mightily  diser- 
pinted,  fer  I  certainly  would  hate  ter  think  er  honest 
feller  could  look  so  powerful  like  er  raskil." 

But  now  it  was  all  over  and  he  was  gone  —  he  was 
gone !  David's  heart  sang  it  in  jubilation,  and  he  gave 
a  little  caper  of  sheer  relief  and  squared  his  sturdy 
young  shoulders,  for  he  felt  that  a  hateful  burden  had 
lifted  from  them,  and  a  black  cloud  swept  away  from 
his  immediate  horizon.  Besides,  day  was  breaking 
gloriously  on  this  hunting  morning  and  he  was  a  boy, 
and  alive! 

The  moon  had  faded  to  a  pale  wanness  when  they 
topped  the  ridge,  and  emerging  into  a  cleared  field 
caught  sight  of  her  once  more,  and  the  attendant  star 
had  lost  all  its  gay  defiance. 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

All  at  once,  somewhere  in  the  still  woods,  in  its 
sleep,  a  little  bird  fell  from  its  perch,  and  with  a  startled 
squeak  awoke,  and  behold,  it  was  daylight!  That 
astonishing,  that  triumphant  thing  daylight!  And  the 
bird  filled  its  throat  ecstatically  and  poured  forth  all  its 
astonishment  and  delight  in  a  glorious  solo.  In  a 
moment  its  voice  woke  its  slumbering  neighbours  and 
each  in  turn  took  up  its  chant  of  surprise  and  jubilation 
that  the  wonderful  event  of  dawn  should  really  have 
occurred  once  more! 

And  there  in  the  path  before  them  David  and  his 
father  found  Orin  Snyder  and  the  two  Henderson  boys, 
who  were  to  be  the  drivers  on  the  hunt  that  day, 
waiting  for  Bet  and  Bounder,  and  the  old  dog  Buck. 
David  turned  his  dogs  over  to  them  and  fell  into  a 
choppy  little  trot  behind  the  men's  long  steps,  which 
soon  brought  them  up  to  the  main  body  of  the  hunters 
on  their  way  to  the  different  stands  along  the  ridge. 

The  men  greeted  one  another  carelessly  with  familiar 
"Howdys"  as  men  who  saw  each  other  almost  daily, 
in  their  usual  occupations,  and  dropped  into  desultory 
conversation  as  they  swung  along  in  the  heavy,  uneven 
mountain  gait.  For  the  most  part  they  were  of  the 
long  and  lank  mountain  type,  angular  and  slouching 
but  strong  when  the  need  came  —  with  a  certain  wiry, 
unlooked-for  strength.  Most  of  them  carried  hunter's 
horns,  and  all  had  their  firearms,  such  as  they  were  — 
a  heterogeneous  collection  of  old-fashioned  muzzle- 
loading  rifles  and  more  newly  acquired  shotguns. 

There  were  the  two  McClintic  boys  —  silent  brothers 
16 


AT  THE  MAPLE  SPRING  STAND 

whose  farm  joined  Alderson  Cree's  where  it  ran  up 
Peter's  Ridge;  Silas  Blair  and  his  small  brother  Adrian, 
a  year  or  the  like  older  than  David,  and  George  Hed- 
rick,  who  preferred  hunting  to  storekeeping,  besides 
the  Henderson  boys  and  Orin  Snyder,  the  drivers. 

There  were  four  stands  filled  on  Peter's  Ridge  that 
morning,  three  men  who  drove,  and  eight  dogs  in  the 
pack;  Silas  Blair's  brace  of  pups  on  their  first  trial, 
and  his  older  dogs,  Rosy  and  Ring,  David's  three,  and 
the  storekeeper's  little  Venus. 

For  years  afterwards  any  inhabitant  of  the  Jumping 
Creek  Draft  could  have  told  just  the  placing  of  each 
man  upon  the  stands,  and  all  the  littlest  details  of  that 
hunt  —  there  were  reasons  why  the  details  burnt 
themselves  upon  men's  minds. 

At  the  notch  in  the  mountain,  where  a  path  takes 
down  the  ridge  and  crosses  to  the  Clear  Creek  range, 
the  drivers  struck  off  with  the  dogs,  leaving  the  others 
to  make  their  way  to  the  different  stands  along  the 
top  of  the  mountain,  for  the  course  of  a  deer  started 
on  Clear  Creek  is  over  Peter's  Ridge  at  some  one  of 
its  low  places,  and  across  the  Jumping  Creek  Draft, 
to  the  Drupe  Mountains,  at  the  foot  of  whose  western 
slope  the  hunted  thing  seeks  sanctuary  in  the  Drupe 
River. 

At  the  same  notch  where  the  drivers  left  them,  Blair 
and  his  small  brother  stayed,  for  it  was  the  Blue 
Swamp  stand.  At  the  Divide  the  storekeeper  dropped 
out,  while  half  a  mile  or  so  further  on  David  and  his 
father  settled  themselves  at  the  Maple  Spring,  leaving 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

the  two  McClintics  to  make  their  way  lonesomely  to 
the  low  place  at  the  foot  of  Hare  Hill. 

At  the  Maple  Spring  the  first  long  rays  of  sunshine 
crept  across  from  the  Clear  Creek  Mountains  and 
touched  the  frost  with  a  silver  sheen.  The  stand  was  a 
warm  little  cup  in  the  ridge  where  the  mountain  dipped 
so  low  as  to  be  hardly  more  than  a  high  hill.  So  warm 
and  sheltered  a  place  was  it,  that  here  the  very  earliest 
hepaticas  opened  their  spring  eyes,  with  blood  root 
and  claytonias  treading  hard  upon  their  heels.  And 
doubtless  the  desirability  of  the  situation  went  abroad 
through  all  the  woods,  for  every  year  more  and  more 
flower  families  came  trooping  in,  making  the  place  in 
spring  and  summer  a  very  miracle  of  bloom  and 
fragrance. 

But  now  of  all  that  wealth  of  blossom,  only  the 
ghosts  of  the  crosier  golden-rod  were  left  to  tell  the  tale, 
and  a  few  late  and  dilapidated  asters,  over  which  a  bee 
or  two  buzzed  complainingly,  for  it  was  really  too 
unreasonable  of  the  flowers  to  expect  any  bee  to  go 
honey-gathering  after  frost.  Left  alone,  David  and 
his  father  dropped  silently  to  their  posts,  opposite  ends 
of  a  fallen  chestnut  oak  tree,  denuded  long  since  of  its 
tan  bark.  The  man  with  his  gun  across  his  knees, 
and  his  eyes  growing  vacant  as  his  face  settled  into 
lines  of  thought;  the  boy,  with  his  hunter's  horn,  in 
lieu  of  gun,  in  his  lap,  his  ears  pricked  for  the  first 
faint  yelp  of  the  hounds,  and  his  eyes  looking  away  to 
range  upon  range  of  the  Clear  Creek  Mountains, 
drifting  off  into  indistinct  outlines  where  the  sky  and 

18 


AT  THE  MAPLE  SPRING  STAND 

mountains  met  and  faded  to  a  blue  haze.  And  there 
—  away  and  away  over  there,  David  knew  were  the 
mountains  of  Virginia.  The  mountains  of  Virginia! 
What  words  to  conjure  with!  They  had  always  a 
certain  magic  ring  for  the  boy  —  why  he  scarcely  knew. 
Only,  "Over  in  Virginia"  were  words  to  unlock  doors 
leading  into  mysteiy  and  wonderment.  Over  in  Vir 
ginia  were  romance  and  history.  There  was  a  fat  and 
fertile  land,  from  whence  came  watermelons,  and  where 
persimmons  —  whatever  they  might  be  —  fell  down  in 
the  autumn,  mellowed  by  frost.  Whenever  the  boy 
dreamed,  though  in  truth  his  busy  little  life  found 
small  time  for  dreams,  his  fancy  always  passed  first 
through  the  gate  of  words  "Over  in  Virginia,"  and 
once  through  ran  riot  in  fields  of  watermelons,  and 
under  persimmon  trees.  It  was  his  delectable  land, 
this  land  seen  from  the  mountain  windows  of  his  home 
valley.  When  he  was  grown  perhaps  he  would  go 
there  —  perhaps  —  yet  after  all  wasn't  it  almost  better 
to  lie  upon  a  slope  of  his  own  hills  and  speculate  upon 
those  far-away  blue  ones? 

He  lay  back  now  against  some  stout  undergrowth, 
and  from  its  yielding  arms,  under  dropped  lids,  took 
in  the  scene  before  him.  It  was  that  time  in  the  year 
when  the  splendour  and  glory  of  the  hills  catch  the 
breath,  and  when  to  each  of  us  are  "The  Mountains 
of  Virginia,"  be  they  what  they  may,  most  desirable 
and  most  touched  with  the  joyous,  illusive  flavour  of 
romance. 

As  the  sun  rose,  he  flared  the  near  hillsides  into 


THE  SOWING   OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

burning  colours,  set  off  and  cooled  by  the  dark  ever 
greens,  and  the  oaks'  deeper  hue,  rich  as  the  bronze 
of  a  wild  turkey's  plumage;  while  from  the  distant 
hills  he  dissipated  the  last  little  clouds  and  shreds  of 
mist.  Over  on  one  of  the  far  mountains  arose  a  blue 
curl  that  was  not  mist.  David  sniffed  the  air.  A 
faint  smell  of  burning  woods  mingled  with  the  odour  of 
dying  leaves. 

"Reckon  we'll  hev  ter  fight  fire  soon,"  he  ventured. 

His  father  made  no  response,  and  it  was  as  though 
he  had  not  heard;  the  lines  even  of  his  face  did  not 
relax,  and  glancing  at  him  David  knew  that  his  thoughts 
dwelt  on  Kip  Ryerson,  and  that  he  was  still  in  a  silent 
passion  of  anger.  Again  David  wished  that  he  had 
been  in  at  the  settlement.  That  it  had  been  bitter  for 
Ryerson  he  guessed  well  enough,  familiar  with  his 
father's  arrogance.  In  his  younger  days  before  his 
marriage,  Alderson  Cree  had  been  known  for  the 
readiest  fighter  all  up  and  down  the  Draft,  and  men 
still  said  of  him  —  "Alderson  ain't  hed  ter  take  his 
coat  off  fer  er  right  smart  while,  but  I  reckon  ef  hit 
was  ter  come  er  feller'd  find  ther  same  ole  man  inside 
hit." 

It  was  probably  this  reputation  that  had  put  the 
sting  of  insolence  into  Cree's  settlement  with  Ryerson, 
and  doubtless,  it  was  this  also,  that  had  made  the  latter 
take  the  settlement  in  sullen  unresistance.  David 
waited  a  little  space,  watching  his  father  for  an  answer 
to  his  remark,  and  getting  none,  at  length  drifted  back 
into  his  own  thoughts. 

20 


AT  THE  MAPLE  SPRING  STAND 

It  was  almost  his  first  deer  stand,  and  if  his  pulses 
jumped  with  the  excitement  of  it,  what  wonder,  when 
at  times  even  the  oldest  hunters  take  "buck  ague"? 

Eagerly  he  strained  his  ears  for  every  sound.  The 
occasional  far-away  cry  of  a  hound  made  him  start, 
and  the  murmur  of  the  little  creek  at  the  foot  of  the 
ridge  might  be  a  deer  running.  After  a  time  he  got 
out  his  knife  stealthily,  and  began  with  silent  patience 
to  pare  and  scrape  his  horn,  making  long  curled 
shavings  to  the  notched  mouthpiece  —  for  here  the 
horn  should  be  infinitely  thin,  and  then  to  be  perfect 
it  should  be  polished  and  darkened  by  many  a  long 
wait  on  deer  stands.  David  had  cast  envious  eyes  on 
Adrian  Blair's  horn  that  morning,  it  was  better  than 
his,  darker  and  thinner,  but  then  Adrian,  living  on 
the  top  of  Drupe  Mountain,  belonged  to  a  hunting 
family,  and  had  been  on  many  more  stands  than  he. 
Only  that  fall  he  had  killed  all  alone  his  first  deer. 
David  remembered  the  other  boy's  excited  face  when 
he  came  off  the  hunt  all  streaked  with  the  dead  animal's 
blood,  done  by  the  older  hunters  to  show  it  was  his 
first.  And  he  wondered  how  soon  they  would  let  him 
keep  a  stand  alone. 

The  day  wore  on  toward  nine  o'clock;  it  was  clear 
and  getting  hot.  The  boy  began  to  feel  drowsy  in  the 
warm  stillness.  He  thought  vaguely  that  it  was  just 
as  well  that  his  father  and  he  had  come  hunting,  as  it 
would  have  been  too  dry  anyway  to  go  on  with  their 
corn-shucking. 

Presently  he  was  thirsty.     Across  the  dip  of  the  hollow 
21 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

a  maple  tree,  sending  its  roots  deep,  had  tapped  a 
spring,  and  the  cool  waters  bubbled  out  deliciously 
from  under  the  tree,  giving  to  the  stand  its  name  of 
the  "Maple  Spring,"  and  adding  their  gurgling  con 
tribution  to  the  little  creek  at  the  foot  of  the  ridge. 

David  glanced  at  his  father;  the  man  still  sat  in  the 
same  statue-like  pose. 

"Reckon  I'll  git  er  drink,"  he  said,  rising  stiffly. 
Again  the  man  made  no  reply,  and  the  boy,  hardly 
expecting  any,  crossed  over  to  the  spring. 

The  maple  tree  was  old  and  its  leaves  had  turned 
early  and  fallen  before  the  rest  of  the  trees  had  dropped 
theirs,  like  some  aged  person,  tired  by  the  weight  of 
years,  and  ready  for  bed  and  slumber,  the  first  of  all. 
David  stepped  carefully  among  its  dead  leaves,  trying 
not  to  wake  their  sharp  rustle.  Disturbed  by  his  feet 
they  gave  up  a  hot,  dry  fragrance  of  sunshine  and  fall 
weather,  and  afterwards  the  remembrance  of  that  day 
always  leaped  back  upon  him  with  the  perfume  of 
dying  leaves. 

At  the  spring  he  flung  himself  down  and  was  just 
about  to  set  his  lips  to  the  water  when  his  ears  caught 
the  joytius  burst  of  the  hounds  running  in  full  cry  — 
they  had  jumped  a  deer  on  Clear  Creek.  David's 
heart  gave  a  great  bound  that  almost  choked  him,  yet 
in  spite  of  his  excitement  he  stooped  again  to  the 
spring.  There  was  a  moment  in  which  he  might 
snatch  his  drink,  and  yet  get  back  to  his  post  by  his 
father  in  time,  for  the  dogs  were  not  near  yet. 

For  a  few  moments  he  drank  eagerly,  then  suddenly, 
22 


AT  THE  MAPLE  SPRING  STAND 

unexpectedly  he  stopped  —  a  wave  of  paralyzing  fear 
swept  over  him.  He  had  not  seen  anything,  he  had 
not  heard  anything,  yet  all  at  once  the  stillness  in  the 
woods  was  ominous  of  something  horrible,  something 
appalling.  Terrified  he  lay  upon  the  brink  of  the 
little  spring,  slightly  raised  by  his  two  hands,  and 
waited;  hearing  nothing  but  the  tonguing  of  the  dogs 
and  seeing  nothing  but  his  own  frightened  face,  which 
the  water  gave  back.  Then  it  came  —  a  sharp  report, 
a  cry,  and  something  fleeing  through  the  crashing 
underbrush.  With  an  answering  scream  David  leaped 
to  his  feet  and  looked.  His  father  had  slipped  from 
the  log  on  which  he  sat  and  lay  a  huddled  heap  upon 
the  ground,  shot  in  the  back. 

David  sprang  toward  him,  "Pappy,  Pappy!"  he 
cried.  He  had  not  seen  any  one,  yet  in  the  distance 
he  still  heard  heavy  feet  tearing  through  the  under 
growth  as  something  fled  desperately  down  the  ridge. 

As  David  stooped  over  him,  his  father  opened  his 
eyes,  vacantly  at  first,  but  gradually  meaning  and  hate 
grew  in  them.  He  caught  his  breath  in  hard  gasps, 
and  his  gaze  centred  upon  David.  With  an  effort  he 
raised  one  hand  and  dropped  it  to  the  boy's  trembling 
shoulder,  but  from  there  it  slipped  down  his  arm  until 
the  weakening  fingers  closed  on  his  wrist  at  the  same 
spot  where  they  had  gripped  him  in  the  morning ;  the 
place  was  still  sore  and  bruised. 

"It  was  Ryerson  done  hit,"  he  panted.  "Ryerson 
done  hit.  I  ain't  seen  him  but  I  know  he  done  hit. 
He's  killed  yer  Pappy"  —  he  paused,  fighting  for 

23 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

breath.  "He's  killed  yer  Pappy,"  he  repeated;  then 
—  "Ef  ther  law  don't  kill  him,  promise  me  you  will." 
He  stopped  again  for  breath,  his  terrible  dying  eyes 
searching  David's  face.  For  a  moment  the  boy  hesi 
tated,  too  dazed  by  it  all  to  understand. 

Again  the  fingers  twitched  his  wrist,  and  the  insistent 
voice  went  on,  "He's  killed  yer  Pappy,  he's  killed  yer 
Pappy,  would  yer  let  him  live?" 

All  at  once  David's  stunned  senses  woke,  and  hatred, 
more  awful  than  that  upon  the  man's  dying  face, 
stamped  itself  upon  the  boy's.  Alderson  Cree  saw  the 
look  and  his  voice  rose  almost  to  a  scream, 

"Promise,  promise!"  he  cried,  "promise — " 

The  words  were  lost  in  a  sudden  overpowering  burst 
of  sound,  as  the  hounds  in  full  cry  topped  a  nearby 
ridge. 

At  the  same  instant  a  great  frightened  buck  swept 
across  the  little  runlet  and  sprang  past  up  the  moun 
tain,  almost  trampling  upon  the  man  and  boy.  A 
moment  later  the  hounds  burst  upon  them  and  David 
noted,  unconscious  that  he  did  so,  that  old  Buck  led 
them  all,  little  Venus  hard  upon  him,  and  Silas  Blair's 
puppies  running  pantingly  in  the  rear. 

"Promise,  promise!"  his  father's  voice  took  up  its 
burden  out  of  the  chaos  of  sound  as  the  hunt  swept 
away. 

"Oh!  I  do,  I  do!"  David  cried,  passionately.  "I 
promise  yer,  Pappy,  I  promise!" 

At  the  words  his  father's  fingers  loosed  their  hold, 
and  dropped  satisfied  to  the  ground. 

24 


AT  THE  MAPLE  SPRING  STAND 

"Tell  ther  fellers,"  he  gasped,  and  shut  his  eyes. 

David  tore  his  heavy  boots  from  his  feet  and  with 
one  last  look  at  his  father  fled  down  the  uneven  and 
rocky  path  to  the  storekeeper's  stand,  running  as  he 
had  never  run  before  in  all  his  life,  his  eyes  starting 
wildly  from  his  blanched  face,  and  his  heart  leaping 
as  though  it  would  leap  out  of  his  body. 

Peter's  Ridge  is  traced  all  over  with  faint,  indefinite 
little  paths,  made,  some  by  cattle,  and  some  worn  in 
a  winter  by  a  few  patient  school  children  walking 
Indian  file;  and  some  seem  made  by  hobgoblins  for  the 
purpose  of  misleading  mortal  feet,  for  after  many  a 
devious  twist  and  turn  they  grow  gradually  more 
indistinct  until  suddenly  one  finds  that  they  have  faded 
altogether  into  the  green  undergrowth  —  so  that  it 
behooves  only  the  initiated  to  tread  the  maze  of  this 
ridge. 

Along  one  of  these  side  paths,  better  marked  than 
most,  and  which  eventually  dips  close  to  the  Maple 
Spring,  a  sombre  little  figure  moved  in  and  out  through 
the  golden  light  of  that  October  morning;  a  little 
withered  old  woman,  her  head  bound  in  a  black 
handkerchief  and  again  covered  by  a  sunbonnet  of  the 
same  indistinct  colouring  as  the  rest  of  her  dress,  which 
had  all  faded  long  since  into  one  indeterminate  hue. 
In  one  thin  little  hard  hand  she  carried  a  tin  pail, 
from  which  occasional  splashes  of  buttermilk  spilled 
to  the  ground,  in  the  other  she  clutched  a  roll  of  quilt 
pieces.  She  walked  unevenly,  for  she  was  feeble,  though 
not  as  old  as  she  looked,  and  all  the  wonderful  play  of 

25 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

light  across  the  path,  and  the  autumn  perfumes,  did 
not  affect  her  in  the  least;  for  with  nature  always 
present  in  her  existence,  and  people  rarely,  naturally 
the  latter  claimed  her  keenest  interest,  and  now  as  she 
walked  along  past  moss-grown  stones,  and  little  green 
patches  of  wild  grass,  this  old  Martha  Lamfire  was 
thinking  only  of  her  visit  to  Mrs.  Henderson,  and  of 
the  quilt  pieces  she  had  given  her,  as  well  as  the  butter 
milk.  As  her  thoughts  ran  on  she  occasionally  mum 
bled  them  half  out  loud  to  herself,  and  when  she 
presently  neared  the  Maple  Spring,  she  murmured  an 
intention  of  getting  a  drink  there.  A  little  later,  how 
ever,  when  she  would  have  pushed  the  undergrowth 
aside  to  emerge  upon  the  spring,  a  deep- caught  groan 
arrested  her.  At  the  unexpected  sound  the  old  woman 
jumped  back  as  instinctively  as  she  would  have  done 
at  the  whirr  of  a  rattle-snake,  and  it  was  characteristic, 
that  before  looking  forward  again,  she  first  looked 
back.  Assured  that  no  one  observed  her,  she  carefully 
pushed  the  branches  aside  and  peered  into  the  hollow, 
her  faded  sunbonnet  poking  through  with  the  alert 
inquiry  of  an  old  turkey  hen.  Leaning  thus  eagerly 
forward,  she  caught  sight  of  Alderson  Cree's  huddled 
figure.  For  a  space  she  looked  at  him  in  bewilderment, 
then  with  a  low  murmur  of  compassion  she  would  have 
moved  toward  him,  but  at  the  moment  the  man  writhed 
slightly  to  one  side  and  she  saw  his  face,  which  until 
then  had  been  turned  from  her.  Instantly  she  checked 
her  forward  movement  and  the  pity  in  her  own  face 
went  out.  For  a  space  again  she  stood  still,  looking  at 

26 


AT  THE  MAPLE  SPRING  STAND 

him  lying  there  in  the  tragic  little  hollow;  then  cau 
tiously  step  by  step  she  began  to  draw  back;  but  all 
at  once  she  stopped  to  listen  —  the  man  was  pray 
ing,  his  voice  sounding  strange  and  broken  in  the 
sunny  stillness  of  the  woods. 

The  words  came  with  a  sudden  burst  - 

"Oh!  Lord,"  he  cried,  "let  me  just  live  ter  tell 
Dave  hit  don't  matter.  Lord,  I  didn't  think,  I  didn't 
know  then,  I  didn't  understan'.  Let  me  jest  live  ter 
make  him  take  back  his  promise."  And  again  —  "O 
Lord,  send  me  ter  Heaven  or  Hell,  but  jest  let  me  tell 
Dave  not  ter  kill  Kip  Ryerson." 

Where  dying  thoughts  wander,  who  can  guess? 
Surely  they  move  quickly  at  the  last.  Certainly  Alder- 
son  Cree's,  faced  by  Eternity,  had  flashed  far  from  the 
grim  promise  he  had  exacted  from  his  son  such  a  short 
while  ago. 

As  he  prayed,  the  old  woman,  standing  waist  deep  in 
the  painted  undergrowth,  pressed  the  roll  of  quilt  pieces 
hard  against  her  lips  to  still  their  mumbling,  but  a  dry 
twig  snapped  and  she  caught  her  breath  too  quickly. 
The  man  heard  and  cried  out: 

"Who's  that?" 

The  old  woman  neither  moved  nor  answered. 

"Who's  there?"  he  cried  again  sharply,  and  would 
have  turned  in  her  direction,  only  he  could  not.  Yet 
he  felt  that  some  one  was  there,  some  one  who  stood 
silently  in  the  bushes  and  watched  him. 

"Come  here  so's  I  kin  see  yer.  Come  here,"  he 
begged  pantingly.  Still  the  old  woman  did  not  move. 

27 


THE   SOWING   OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

The  man  waited  hopefully  an  instant  and  then  cried 
piteously,  "Per  God's  sake  come  here!" 

She  did  not  come,  yet  he  heard  her  breathing  distinctly 
now. 

"Ef  yer  won't  come  ter  er  dying  man,"  he  cried 
desperately,  "take  my  word  ter  David.  Tell  him  I 
say  not  ter  kill  Kip  Ryerson  ef  ther  law  don't  git  him. 
I'll  not  last  ter  tell  him  myself.  Tell  him  hit  don't 
matter,  I  didn't  think.  Oh!  tell  him!  Tell  him." 
The  voice  broke  and  trailed  away  into  silence.  Still 
no  answer,  and  still  the  person  was  there. 

Then  fury  rose  in  Alderson  Cree,  and  with  all  his 
dying  strength  he  cursed. 

"Yer  devil!"  he  cried,  "whoever  yer  aire,  give  my 
word  ter  David,  or  by  —  I'll  be  er  waitin'  fer  yer  on 
ther  doorstep  of  Hell  when  yer  come." 

At  the  awful  words  the  trembling  old  woman,  with 
horror  in  her  eyes,  turned  and  fled  away  down  the  path, 
spilling  the  buttermilk  in  long  white  streaks,  the  pieces 
still  pressed  to  her  mouth,  and  the  broken,  dying  voice 
wailing  after  her: 

"I'll  be  er  waitin'  fer  yer.     I'll  be  waitin'." 

Thus  at  the  last  Alderson  Cree  sought  to  take  his 
hand  from  the  plough  of  vengeance  he  had  started,  but 
an  old  woman,  for  a  reason  forgotten  by  all  save  her 
self,  laid  hers  to  it,  eager  to  furrow  out  a  revenge  of  her 
own. 

When  the  two  Blairs  and  the  storekeeper  with  David 
reached  the  hollow,  running  hard,  Cree  was  speechless, 
but  as  they  started  to  lift  him,  his  dying  eyes  arrested 

28 


AT  THE   MAPLE   SPRING   STAND 

them.  Dimly  they  flashed  over  the  group  and  settled 
on  his  son. 

"He's  got  somethin'  ter  say  ter  yer,  Davy,"  the 
storekeeper  said  quickly.  "Po'  feller,  he's  mos' 
gone." 

"Don't—  '  Cree  managed  to  gasp,  with  a  fierce 
effort,  "Don't  —  But  then  there  was  a  gurgle  in  his 
throat,  he  choked  and  stopped,  the  blood  running  from 
his  lips  in  a  red  line.  But  David  flung  himself  beside 
him,  crying  passionately: 

"I  won't  fergit,  I  won't  fergit!  I've  promised  yer 
Pappy,  I've  promised." 

And  so,  with  the  boy's  reiterated  promise  in  his 
ears,  Alderson  Cree  died. 


29 


CHAPTER    II 

AMABEL   LAMFIRE 

WHEN  old  Martha  Lamfire  reached  her  own  little 
log  doorstep,  after  her  wild  stumbling  run  through  the 
undergrowth  of  Peter's  Ridge,  she  sank  down  on  it 
panting  and  exhausted,  and  vaguely  glad  of  the  familiar 
aspect  of  things;  for,  deeply  shaken  as  she  was  from 
her  usual  routine  of  thought,  she  was  as  confused  and 
stupefied  as  some  mole  suddenly  torn  from  its  accus 
tomed  dark  runways.  She  had  snagged  an  immense 
hole  in  her  skirt,  and  almost  all  the  buttermilk  was 
spilt,  but  these  mishaps  went  unheeded  as  she  sat 
staring  uncertainly  across  the  dazzling  sunlight  of  the 
yard.  Her  lips  mumbled  more  than  ever,  and  every 
now  and  again  she  shook  her  head  in  bewilderment, 
and  muttered,  "Alderson  Cree!  O  Lord,  Alderson 
Cree!"  as  though  the  thing  were  unbelievable. 

To  her  it  was  so,  for  her  thoughts  swept  back  to 
fourteen  years  ago  when  Alderson  Cree,  in  all  his  vigour 
of  youth,  had  first  come  stepping  up  to  that  same  door 
step  to  see  Amabel  Lamfire. 

That  Martha  Lamfire,  married  rather  late  in  life, 
and  already  drawn  and  withered  by  rough  work, 
should  have  a  daughter  of  a  startling  and  unusual 

3° 


AMABEL  LAMFIRE 

dark  beauty,  was  a  source  of  wonderment  to  the 
Jumping  Creek  neighbourhood  —  to  Martha  herself  it 
was  nothing  short  of  a  miracle.  From  the  first  the 
child  was  to  her  a  being  exalted  and  set  apart ;  the  only 
beautiful  thing  her  life  had  ever  realized.  For  her 
husband  she  had  never  cared  particularly,  and  when 
he  died,  slipping  away  as  unobtrusive  in  death  as  he 
had  been  in  life,  his  decease  was  almost  a  relief  to 
Martha,  for  it  left  her  sole  and  undisputed  possessor 
of  Amabel,  her  marvel  of  beauty  and  delight. 

All  alone  the  two  lived  together  in  the  Mossy  Run 
Hollow.  Their  little  log  cabin,  of  one  room  with  a 
half  loft  above,  backed  darkly  against  a  northern  arm 
of  Peter's  Ridge. 

"Lonesome?  Wai,  I  reckon,"  George  Hedrick  was 
wont  to  say.  "Great  Day!  Ef  I  was  goin'  ter  ther 
penitentiary,  I'd  steal  somethin'  sure  'nough  an'  git 
sent  there  right.  Er  side  office  like  ther  Mossy  Holler 
wouldn't  satisfy  me." 

But  it  satisfied  Martha  Lamfire.  From  it  she  some 
how  wrung  a  living  for  herself  and  Amabel.  Two 
tolerably  well-fed  cows,  a  bunch  of  chickens,  a  little 
patch  of  ground,  and  a  harness -galled  and  rickety  old 
horse,  together  with  a  pig  or  two,  made  up  their  source 
of  income;  and  if  the  girls  down  further  in  the  Draft, 
where  the  valley  opened  into  broader  fields,  and  the 
mountains  pressed  less  hard  upon  one,  and  life  alto 
gether  was  sunnier  and  more  genial,  had  hands  coars 
ened  by  work,  and  figures  bent  before  their  time  by 
carrying  heavy  baby  sisters  and  brothers,  Amabel 

31 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

Lamfire,  treasured  in  her  dark  and  lonely  hollow,  led 
the  life  of  a  mountain  princess.  People  marvelled  at 
the  fury  of  work  the  old  woman  —  for  at  forty  the 
women  are  old  in  the  Draft  —  laid  upon  herself,  in 
order  that  Amabel  should  know  only  the  soft  side  of 
life;  and  the  amount  spent  on  the  girl's  clothes  was  a 
scandal  to  the  whole  community.  George  Hedrick, 
always  the  distributor  of  local  gossip,  could  tell  of  the 
fall  Martha  brought  a  butchered  pig  to  the  store  to 
trade  in  goods. 

"It  was  a  right  nice  fat  hog,  an'  when  I  tole  her 
how  much  hit  weighed,  she  ses  right  out,  'Well,  now, 
I  jist  want  all  er  thet  hog  ter  go  right  on  my  Amabel's 
back,'  an'  her  eyes  were  jest  er  shinin'.  An'  there  was 
Ammy  standin'  back  jest  as  quiet  an'  pretty  lookin', 
an'  not  mo'  en  ther  pint  er  her  chin  showin'  under  her 
sunbonnet  poke  —  don'  know's  I  ever  reely  seed 
her  face  thout  stoopin'  down  an'  lookin'  right  into  her 
bonnet  —  but  bet  yer  Alderson  Cree  knows  ther  colour 
er  her  eyes  all  right." 

Always  gentle  and  sweet- natured,  Amabel,  too,  led  as 
contented  a  life  as  her  mother.  Happy  in  the  summers 
with  her  little  patch  of  flowers,  and  what  light  work 
her  mother  let  her  undertake,  and  in  the  winter  doing 
little  odd  jobs  of  sewing,  her  sweet,  slow  smiles  making 
up  the  sunshine  of  the  old  woman's  existence.  Placid 
and  contented,  Amabel's  life  was  nevertheless  negative, 
until  that  day  in  early  autumn  when  Alderson  Cree 
came  along  their  path,  up  the  hollow,  past  the  spring, 
and  over  the  yard  fence,  and  pausing  on  the  doorstep 

32 


AMABEL  LAMFIRE 

asked  Amabel  to  go  to  preaching  with  him  the  next 
Sunday. 

After  that  first  Sunday,  all  through  the  winter  and 
spring  Alderson  went  with  her.  And  in  those  days, 
just  turned  seventeen,  Amabel  Lamfire's  indefiniteness 
dropped  from  her,  and  she  awoke.  She  was  spirit,  she 
was  fire,  she  was  life  and  incarnate  happiness. 

At  first  old  Martha  was  proud  that  Alderson  Cree, 
the  likeliest  man  in  the  Draft,  with  the  inheritance  of 
the  old  Cree  Place  to  back  him,  should  be  going  with 
her  Ammy,  though  she  considered  it  nothing  more  than 
the  girl's  due,  and  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  the  best 
should  be  hers;  but  presently,  after  the  first  flush  of 
triumph  over  the  other  mothers  of  the  Draft,  and  as* 
she  saw  the  lights  flash  up  in  Amabel's  face  at  Alder- 
son's  coming,  and  fade  with  his  departure,  the  old 
woman  began  to  be  assailed  with  stabs  of  sudden 
jealousy.  Her  child  could  never  again  be  her  very 
own,  all  in  all,  as  she  had  been.  Already  the  vital 
part  of  her  was  Alderson's.  This  little  thing  for  whom 
she  had  toiled,  and  whom  she  had  guarded  with  all 
the  devotion  of  her  fierce  nature,  was  given  to  another, 
before,  it  seemed  to  her,  her  own  love  had  had  fairly  a 
taste  of  her.  As  her  jealousy  grew,  for  days  together 
Martha  Lamfire  had  silent  fits  of  sullenness,  or  only 
spoke  to  break  out  upon  Alderson  in  vituperation;  and 
once  started  her  old  tongue  laid  itself  to  many  a  sharp 
thing,  making  Amabel  wince  and  look  at  her  pleadingly, 
as  Alderson's  face  whitened  with  suppressed  anger. 
For  a  long  time  he  stood  her  abuse  well  enough,  held 

33 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

in  check  by  the  girl's  beseeching  eyes,  but  at  last  there 
came  a  day  when  jealousy  whipped  the  old  woman  into 
a  very  fury,  and  her  words  leaped  all  the  bounds  of  self- 
control.  Stung  beyond  endurance,  Alderson  Cree 
turned  upon  Amabel  and  swore  she  should  choose 
between  himself  and  her  mother. 

"Ef  yer  keer  fer  me,"  he  said,  "we'll  git  married 
termorrow.  But  it's  got  ter  be  me  er  her,  fer  I'll  never 
come  under  the  same  roof  with  thet  old  wildcat 
ergin." 

"Oh!  don't,  don't!"  the  girl  cried  piteously,  and 
would  have  put  her  arms  about  his  neck,  but  he  held 
her  away  from  him  sternly,  crying,  "Make  yer  choice!" 
.  Amabel  loved  Alderson  Cree  with  her  very  soul,  but 
in  that  moment  his  face  was  hard  even  to  her,  and  she 
looked  across  to  her  mother.  The  old  woman,  all  at 
once  realizing  the  disaster  her  unbridled  tongue  had 
wrought,  stood  in  a  white  fear,  expecting  to  see  her 
child  slip  from  her  forever.  Looking  at  her,  it  swept 
suddenly  over  the  girl  what  they  two  had  been  to  each 
other,  in  all  the  lonesome  years  of  the  little  hollow, 
with  never  anybody  to  come  between.  For  a  moment 
she  wavered,  imploring  Alderson  with  dark,  tragic  eyes ; 
then  as  his  look  showed  no  softness,  she  turned  and 
went  over  to  Martha  with  a  set  little  face,  as  though  in 
that  moment  her  thoughts  leaped  forward  and  read 
the  calamity  that  her  mother's  very  love  had  brought 
upon  her.  At  the  sight  Alderson  Cree  flung  out  of 
the  house,  and  once  again  Martha  Lamfire  had  sole 
possession  of  her  treasure. 

34 


AMABEL  LAMFIRE 

But  the  lights  were  out  and  the  spirit  was  gone  from 
Amabel.  Never  by  word  or  deed  did  she  reproach  her 
mother,  but  her  lifeless  face  was  a  constant  daily  stab 
to  the  old  woman,  and  sometimes  in  very  irritation  of 
love  she  would  break  out  upon  her  for  her  want  of 
spirit.  Amabel  never  answered  her,  indeed  she  gave 
no  sign  of  hearing,  save  occasionally  to  look  at  her 
mother  with  a  sad  little  tolerant  smile.  It  was  not  a 
week  before  Martha,  unknown  to  her  daughter,  went 
to  Alderson  Cree  and  begged  him  to  come  back. 

"I  know  hit  was  all  my  fault,  because  I  allers  did 
hev  sech  er  tumble  tongue,  but  jest  come  back  this 
onct  an'  I'll  never  speak  yer  er  cross  word  ergin,"  she 
pleaded. 

But  Alderson  was  a  narrow  man  and  a  hard  one, 
once  the  boundary  of  his  toleration  was  overleaped, 
and  his  only  answer  was: 

"Tell  Ammy  I'll  marry  her  termorrow  ef  she'll  hev 
me,  but  tell  her  hit's  got  ter  be  me  er  you  onct  fer 
all." 

Martha  went  back  hopelessly,  and  even  gave  Amabel 
Alderson's  message,  but  the  girl  shook  her  head  and 
crept  close  to  her  mother. 

"You  an'  me'll  never  be  parted,  will  we,  Mammy?" 
she  said,  and  again  pressing  closer,  "You  an'  me's  been 
best  friends,  ain't  we?"  she  said. 

Two  weeks  afterwards  Alderson  took  up  with  Judy 
Leister,  a  little  red-haired  thing  who  had  sprung  quite 
suddenly  from  bare-footed  childhood  into  womanhood. 

Amabel  had  no  lack  for  other  suitors,  but  there  was 
35 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

no  power  to  respond  left  in  her.  Her  first  great 
passion  was  her  only  one,  and  she  was  left  no  more 
than  a  shell  of  her  glorified  self,  like  some  rare 
flower  whose  vitality  is  exhausted  in  the  one  perfect 
blossom. 

People  of  the  Jumping  Creek  Draft  do  not  die  of 
heart-break  —  they  have  no  time  for  it  —  but  when  the 
soul  has  gone  out  of  things  the  littlest  and  lightest 
occupations  are  heavy,  and  the  slightest  blow  over 
whelming.  When  the  fall  came  —  a  year  from  the 
fall  when  Alderson  Cree  first  came  stepping  up  their 
little  hollow  —  and  the  fever  was  prevalent  through 
the  Draft,  Amabel  found  no  spirit  in  her  to  resist  it, 
and  went  down  like  a  frost-nipped  flower. 

A  week  later  Martha  Lamfire,  with  hard-clinched 
hands,  peered  out  of  the  darkness  into  Mack  Leister's 
cheery  little  cabin,  with  Alderson  and  Judy  Leister 
sitting  side  by  side  roasting  chestnuts  at  the  fire. 
Presently  in  all  that  firelight  coziness  the  man  was 
conscious  of  some  one  calling  his  name. 

"Alderson,  Alderson  Cree!" 

He  rose  hastily  and  went  out,  drawing  the  door  to 
after  him. 

"Who  wants  me?"  he  said,  half  fearfully  to  the 
darkness.  A  voice  answered  out  of  the  shadows,  and 
he  narrowed  his  eyes  to  catch  sight  of  Martha. 

"Alderson,"  she  begged,  "my  girl's  dyin'  —  Ammy's 
dyin'  —  an'  yer  ther  only  person  kin  save  her  —  fer 
God's  sake  come  ter  her,  an'  I  swear  I'll  go  off  some- 
wheres  erway  from  here  an'  never  ergin  set  foot  nigh 

36 


AMABEL  LAMFIRE 

her  er  you  —  jest  come  ter  her  now,  an'  yer  kin  hev 
her  fer  all  yer  own." 

The  man  looked  at  her  a  moment  in  silence,  and 
when  at  length  he  spoke  his  voice  was  almost  piteous. 

"I  can't,"  he  said,  "I  can't  go  ter  her;  me  an'  Judy's 
ter  be  married  in  ther  mornin'." 

"Then  you  an'  me've  killed  her  betwixt  us — " 
Martha  Lamfire  said  in  a  dead  voice,  and  went  away 
into  the  shadows. 

The  next  day  Alderson  and  Judy  Leister  drove  over 
to  Wayside,  the  county  town,  and  were  married,  and 
the  next  Sunday,  just  a  year  from  the  Sunday  she  and 
Alderson  first  went  to  preaching  together,  Amabel 
Lamfire  slipped  away.  She  died  holding  her  mother's 
hand,  and  the  last  conscious  thing  she  said,  with  a 
little  white  smile,  was: 

"You  an'  me's  allers  been  best  friends,  ain't  we, 
Mammy?" 

But  afterwards  she  drifted  into  delirium,  and  for  a 
long  time  she  called  Alderson  Cree's  name  over  and 
over. 

The  night  after  they  buried  Amabel,  Martha  Lamfire 
stole  out  of  her  house  while  the  neighbour,  who  was 
staying  with  her  to  break  the  first  loneliness,  was 
asleep,  and  wandering  away  in  the  mountains  was  lost 
for  two  nights  and  a  day  in  the  cold  woods  of  late 
October.  And  when  at  length  a  search  party  found 
her  she  seemed  dazed  and  curious,  and  always  after 
wards  the  Draft  people  said,  "She  hed  er  kinder  crazy 
streak  in  her." 

37 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

And  all  of  this  had  happened  near  upon  fourteen 
years  ago.  Even  the  Draft  had  almost  forgotten 
Amabel,  and  outside  of  the  Draft  she  had  never  been 
known.  Her  knowledge  of  the  world  and  its  knowledge 
of  her  had  all  been  girdled  in  a  five- mile  radius;  to  all 
appearances  a  small  enough  splash  of  existence  —  but 
even  the  smallest  splashes  leave  widening  ripples  behind 
them. 

Martha  lived  on,  a  lonesome  and  forlorn  old  woman, 
disliked  by  most  and  feared  by  all,  for  her  crazy  streak 
and  for  her  terrible  tongue,  which  lashed  recklessly  at 
any  and  all  her  neighbours. 

Sitting  now  in  the  autumn  sunshine  after  her  tumul 
tuous  flight  down  the  mountain,  the  shaken  old  woman 
called  up  the  whole  past  in  review,  and  again  she 
muttered  in  stupefaction,  "Alderson  Cree!  O  Lord, 
Alder  son  Cree!  I  asked  yer  onct  ter  come  ter  my  girl 
—  yer  didn't  low  then  yer'd  ever  be  er  beggin'  me  fer 
God's  sake  ter  come  ter  you."  And  then  as  her 
thoughts  travelled  on  she  muttered  triumphantly  — 
"Aha!  Judy  Leister!  Reckon  your  boy '11  hev  er  tough 
row  ter  hoe  too!" 

As  she  muttered  the  words  a  man  stepped  heavily 
over  her  yard  fence  and  stood  before  her;  raising  her 
head  she  looked  up  into  Kip  Ryerson's  face.  With 
almost  a  spring  she  got  to  her  feet  —  yet,  though  she 
was  startled,  the  little  shrivelled  old  woman  was  not 
afraid. 

Ryerson  was  pale  and  his  eyes  held  in  them  a  queer 
look,  yet  he  managed  his  greeting  naturally  enough. 

38 


AMABEL  LAMFIRE 

"Howdy,  Mis'  Lamfire,"  he  said,  "I  come  ter  see 
could  I  git  board  with  you?" 

Martha  regarded  him  in  silence  for  a  moment;  at 
length  she  said: 

"Thought  yer  was  boardin'  with  ther  Cree  folks?" 

"I  was,"  Ryerson  answered  easily,  "but  Alderson's 
woman  don't  cook  ter  suit  me,  an'  I  lowed  I'd  git 
board  with  you  —  it's  most  as  nigh  ter  ther  mill  any 
how." 

Then  Martha  Lamfire  drew  her  tense  little  figure  up, 
and  setting  her  bony  hands  upon  her  hips,  with  superb 
recklessness  she  shot  her  bow;  spurred  on  partly 
because  she  really  did  not  care  whether  she  lived  or 
died,  and  partly,  perhaps,  because  of  the  crazy  streak. 

' '  Ah !  —  Ha-a ! ' '  she  said  with  slow  scorn.  ' '  So  Judy 
Cree  don't  cook  ter  please  yer,  an'  reckon  ef  I  wa'n't 
ter  cook  ter  suit  yer  neither  yer'd  shoot  me  like  yer 
done  Alderson  Cree." 

At  her  words  Ryerson  gave  a  great  start,  and  his 
hands  flew  forward  as  though  to  wring  her  skinny 
neck;  but  he  checked  himself  and  fell  back  a  step  or 
two. 

"You  old  devil!1'  he  cried.     "What  do  yer  mean?" 

"I  mean  jest  what  I  say,"  she  screamed  her  voice 
cracking  to  shrillness.  "I  ain't  seen  yer  kill  Alderson 
Cree,  an'  reckon  nobody  else  has,  an'  maybe  ther  law 
won't  git  yer,  but  ef  hit  don't  David  Cree  an'  Hell 
will,  an'  I'll  not  hev  yer  stayin'  round  here  while  they're 
er  waitin'  fer  yer!" 

And  carried  away  by  her  fury  the  old  woman  made 
39 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

a  spring  at  him  and  shook  her  fist  in  Ryerson's  very 
face. 

It  was  such  a  passionate  and  unexpected  attack,  and 
so  sudden,  that  the  man's  nerve  went  down  before  it, 
and  without  resistance  or  reply  he  turned  and  fled  out 
of  the  yard  appalled. 

And  old  Martha  Lamfire  dropped  down  again  to  her 
doorstep,  the  lights  going  out  of  her  eyes,  and  her  face 
settling  once  more  to  its  look  of  a  dead  winter  leaf. 


40 


CHAPTER   III 

THE  MOULDING   OF  JUDITH   CREE 

IT  was  sunnily  still,  and  verging  on  drowsiness  about 
Alderson  Cree's  cabin,  as  the  morning  drew  on  towards 
eleven  o'clock.  The  genial  air  was  faintly  redolent 
with  wandering  perfumes,  and  all  the  world  seemed 
mellowed  by  the  lazy  autumnal  sunshine.  One  felt 
as  though  the  valley  lay  happily  at  rest  after  the  bringing 
forth  of  its  crops,  and  the  gathering  in  of  the  kindly 
fruits  of  the  earth. 

In  the  dooryard  a  few  chickens  strolled  about  in 
differently,  crooning  occasional  idle  notes  to  one 
another,  or,  getting  up  a  little  spirit,  meandered  over 
to  the  frost- nipped  vegetable  garden  where  the  empty 
beds  offered  luxurious  dust  baths. 

Three  of  the  Cree  children,  with  more  energy  than 
the  hens,  played  hiding  around  the  stacks  of  corn 
fodder  in  the  stable  yard;  or,  when  that  became  too 
hot  an  amusement,  betook  themselves  to  the  illicit  joy 
of  burrowing  deep  into  the  heart  of  the  stacks  them 
selves,  making  thereby  delightful  playhouses  of  a 
dark  and  cavernous  nature. 

To  Judith  Cree,  Alderson's  wife,  the  world  seemed 
a  pleasant  place  on  that  October  morning.  The 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

warmth  and  tranquillity  of  the  day  went  to  the  very 
fibres  of  her  being,  and  stirred  them  into  quick  response 
to  all  the  joys  she  knew.  The  simple  domestic  round 
of  autumn  "duties  which  her  energy  had  accomplished, 
reviewed  by  the  light  of  that  golden  weather,  appeared 
blessings  of  almost  a  Heaven-sent  description.  The 
contented  crooning  of  the  chickens  about  the  doorstep; 
the  ripple  of  the  children's  play,  as  it  surged  in  to  her 
now  and  again  in  waves  of  laughter  from  the  stack 
yard;  the  perfume  of  ripened  apples;  and  the  occasional 
sharp  whiff  of  cut  fodder  —  seemed  all  to  her  in  tune 
with  the  day,  and  things  to  be  glad  for.  Every  now 
and  again  as  she  moved  about  the  house,  performing 
her  different  tasks  with  the  grace  of  perfect  ability,  she 
smiled  to  herself,  though  why  she  did  so  she  hardly 
knew.  And  more  than  once  she  said  to  her  mother  — 
old  Mrs.  Leister,  who  had  made  her  home  with  the 
Crees  since  her  husband's  death  —  that  "It  certainly 
was  a  right  pretty  day." 

The  old  woman  gave  but  small  and  unenthusiastic 
response.  Perhaps  the  drift  of  Judith's  remarks  was 
lost  to  her  in  the  whirr  of  her  great  spinning-wheel, 
and  the  incessant  tramp  of  her  own  feet  over  the  creak 
ing  floor,  as  going  forward  she  attached  the  fleecy  bats 
of  wool  —  like  uncut  lambs'  tails  —  to  the  thread,  and 
walking  backwards  drew  them  out  into  long  white 
strands.  Presently,  however,  letting  the  thread  wind 
itself  to  the  end  about  the  spindle,  she  set  the  slowly 
dying  wheel  aside;  for  it  had  reached  that  time  in  the 
morning  —  nearing  eleven  —  when  the  aged  who  rise 

42 


THE  MOULDING  OF  JUDITH  CREE 

early  feel  justified  in  snatching  a  few  moments  for  their 
pipe,  and  to  stare  vacantly  into  the  fire,  ruminating 
upon  the  doings  of  their  neighbours,  before  being  again 
driven  to  activity  by  the  rush  of  the  dinner  hour. 
She  drew  her  chair  up  to  the  uneven  stone  hearth  and 
caught  an  ember  dexterously  on  her  pipe,  preferring  the 
warmth  of  the  smouldering  logs  —  reminders  of  the 
early  chilliness  —  to  the  out-of-door  sunshine. 

Waked  by  the  sudden  hush  of  the  spinning-wheel, 
the  baby  set  up  a  small  cry  from  the  cradle,  stretching 
eager  arms  to  be  taken.  She  was  an  adorable  baby, 
with  the  red  hair  of  her  mother  and  eyes  of  a  won 
derful  misty  blue,  the  shade  of  distant  mountains. 
Being  the  only  one  of  the  children  with  just  the  Leister 
colouring  —  the  others  having  the  dark  eyes  of  the 
Crees  —  and  being  also  the  youngest,  Judith  had  for 
her  an  especial  tenderness.  As  the  baby  felt  her 
mother's  arms  about  her  she  smiled  radiantly  at  the 
ease  of  her  victory,  and  dropped  her  head  with  a  little 
snuggling  motion  against  Judith's  shoulder.  It  was 
an  enchanting  caress  which  must  have  been  taught  in 
Heaven,  for  she  was  too  young  a  baby  to  have  learned 
any  of  the  world's  blandishments,  and  at  the  touch 
Judith  caught  her  close  to  her  breast,  and  murmuring 
little  foolishnesses  turned  to  look  out  over  the  shining 
landscape  of  the  valley. 

"It  certainly  is  er  pretty  day,"  she  said  again.  Then 
standing  in  the  doorway  she  began  retailing  little  scraps 
of  the  gossip  of  the  neighbours'  industry  for  old  Mrs. 
Leister's  benefit. 

43 


THE  SOWING   OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

"Reckon  Allie  Snyder  must  be  making  some 
apple  butter  terday.  I  see  er  fire  down  in  her 
yard.  Hit's  nice  weather  fer  it,  but  seems  like  she's 
right  late." 

"She  allers  was  jest  erbout  es  triflin'  an'  no  'count 
ter  work  es  they  make  'em,"  the  old  woman  announced, 
taking  her  pipe  from  her  mouth  for  this  conclusive 
statement,  and  instantly  replacing  it  again. 

"Robert  Reddin's  haulin'  his  fodder.  He  certainly 
hes  got  er  nice  show  er  pum'kins  in  his  field,"  Judith 
went  on.  "Lloyd's  folks  seem  ter  be  workin'  at 
somethin'  up  by  ther  edge  er  ther  woods.  Reckon  he's 
layin'  him  er  new  fence." 

"Then  he'd  better  mind  an'  git  hit  layed  'fore  hit 
comes  ther  dark  er  ther  moon,  er  ther  rails'll  go  in 
ther  ground;  jest  es  sure  es  ef  yer  put  on  clapboards 
in  ther  light  er  ther  moon  they'll  cup  up,"  grumbled 
her  mother. 

"O  Maw!"  Judith  responded  tolerantly,  and  turned 
again  to  the  out-of-doors.  The  touch  of  the  baby  in 
her  arms,  and  the  beauty  spread  before  her,  waked  all 
the  unguessed  poetry  in  her  nature;  and  leaning  her 
head  against  the  door-frame  she  gave  herself  up  to  a 
few  moments  of  happy  revery,  snatched  from  the  glory 
of  the  landscape,  and  in  defiance  to  the  multitude  of 
unattended  duties  which  lay  at  her  back.  Looking 
half  unseeingly  over  the  fawn-coloured  fields,  dotted 
with  yellow  pumpkins  disclosed  by  the  cutting  of  the 
corn,  it  came  to  her  suddenly,  as  she  reviewed  other 
Octobers  she  had  known,  that  most  of  the  chief  events 

44 


THE  MOULDING  OF  JUDITH  CREE 

of  her  life  had  befallen  her  in  the  autumn.  It  was  in 
the  autumn  she  had  gone  for  almost  a  year's  stay  to 
her  uncle's  in  the  Big  Spring  District;  going  there  by 
train,  an  event  in  itself.  The  autumn  following  she 
had  married,  and  again  in  the  autumn,  her  first  child, 
David,  had  been  born.  Passing  these  events  in  review 
she  half  smiled,  wondering  what  the  present  October 
might  have  in  store  for  her. 

Judith  was  conscious,  too,  besides  her  pleasure  in 
the  sweetness  of  the  weather,  of  a  great  relief  over  the 
departure  of  Kip  Ryerson,  for  more  than  once  some 
thing  in  the  man's  look  and  manner  had  terrified  her, 
and  she  had  come  near  to  hating  him.  Though  looking 
at  the  placid  lines  of  her  face,  one  would  have  guessed 
that  her  life  so  far  had  held  small  taste  of  hate.  Lean 
ing  against  the  door  in  an  attitude  of  easy  grace,  her 
baby  on  her  arm,  Judith  Cree  gave  the  impression  of 
perfect  effortless  tranquillity ;  and  in  truth,  in  her  whole 
existence  so  far,  there  had  been  little  to  disturb  her 
serenity.  The  things  of  life  which  she  had  greatly 
desired  had  almost  all  come  to  her  without  any  supreme 
effort  on  her  part,  leaving,  as  it  were,  the  store  of  her 
emotions  untouched.  Even  her  marriage  had  taken 
place  at  that  youthful  period  when  the  whole  world  is 
a  place  of  wonderment,  with  the  miraculous  lurking 
just  around  the  turn,  so  that  an  event  as  natural  as 
marriage  is  to  be  accepted  as  scarcely  out  of  the 
ordinary. 

Judith  loved  Alderson  Cree  very  passionately,  but  it 
was  with  a  passion  that  she  herself  hardly  guessed; 

45 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

for  there  had  never  been,  to  her  knowledge,  any  ripple 
in  their  courtship  or  subsequent  married  life  to  try 
the  emotions  of  her  nature. 

She  had  known,  of  course,  that  Alderson  had  been 
going  with  Amabel  Lamfire,  but  on  her  return  to  the 
Jumping  Creek  Draft  from  her  visit  to  her  uncle,  he 
had  almost  immediately  broken  with  Amabel,  and 
begun  going  with  her.  Judith  was  aware  that  she  had 
gone  away  a  child  and  returned  a  woman,  and  her 
feeling  toward  the  other  girl  held  no  jealousy,  for  the 
story  of  Alderson's  separation  from  Amabel,  in  all  its 
truth,  strangely  enough,  had  failed  to  come  to  her. 
And  afterwards  Alderson  had  never  given  her  a  mo 
ment's  doubt  of  his  affection,  so  that  her  married  life 
had  thus  flowed  happily  on  to  its  fourteenth  year 
without  trying  any  of  the  keener  passions  of  her  being, 
and  indeed  scarcely  writing  upon  her  face  the  deeper 
lines  of  character. 

Judith  was  come  to  her  thirty-second  year  a  hand 
some  woman  still,  yet  already  a  little  dimmed  by  work. 
Her  red  hair  had  lost  much  of  its  brilliance,  fading  to 
a  rather  dull  mouse  colour,  and  beginning  to  streak  a 
little  here  and  there  to  grey.  But  it  was  time  and 
work,  and  not  circumstances,  that  had  aged  her  face, 
and  it  yet  remained  to  be  seen  whether  events  would 
square  her  still  indefinite  chin  to  defiance  or  mould  it 
into  gentle  lines. 

As  she  stood  happily  thus,  thinking  dreamily  of  the 
past,  Judith  became  all  at  once  aware  of  heavy  foot 
steps  approaching  the  house  from  the  rear.  Could 

46 


THE  MOULDING  OF  JUDITH  CREE 

David  and  Alderson  be  returning  already  from  the 
hunt?  But  there  was  a  sound  of  several  feet,  and 
uncertain  as  though  men  carried  something  heavy. 
Possibly  they  were  bringing  home  the  deer,  shot  per 
haps  by  Alderson,  and  they  were  bringing  it  here  to 
skin  and  divide.  But  if  the  hunt  were  over  where  were 
the  dogs  ?  Perhaps  they  had  started  another  deer  and 
trailed  it  over  into  the  Drupe  Mountains.  So  Judith 
Cree  stood  for  a  moment  and  played  with  her  curiosity, 
as  people  sometimes  will;  for  in  truth  she  was  very 
content  with  the  baby  in  her  arms,  and  was  in  no 
haste  to  turn  to  other  things.  But  suddenly  a  piercing 
scream  from  the  old  woman  startled  her.  Terrified, 
she  sprung  'round,  the  baby  clutched  tight,  and  there 
in  the  dusky  light  of  the  cabin  she  beheld  George 
Hedrick  and  the  two  McClintic  men  lay  Alderson 
Cree's  body  upon  the  bed. 

As  the  purple  shadows  of  the  afternoon  lay  deep  in 
the  hollows,  and  the  sun  was  dropping  behind  the 
Drupe  Mountains,  its  slant  rays  striking  only  the  golden 
tops  of  Peter's  Ridge,  Lloyd  Johnson,  Alderson  Cree's 
brother-in-law,  long  and  lank,  a  man  with  pale  blue 
eyes,  a  limp  wisp  of  beard,  and  a  great  solemnity,  rode 
up  the  valley  to  Orin  Snyder's.  He  was  mounted 
upon  an  old  mule  of  an  indefinite  dun  colour,  and  in 
his  hand  he  carried  a  long  peeled  wand,  notched  about 
a  fourth  of  its  way  down.  When  not  hunting  or  work 
ing  at  McAdams's  sawmill,  Orin  Snyder  sometimes  did 
odd  jobs  as  a  carpenter.  He  came  down  now  to  the 

47 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

fence  to  meet  Johnson  as  he  rode  up.     Without  greeting, 
Johnson  held  the  wand  up  before  him. 

"This  is  him  in  length,"  he  said,  "and,"  turning  it 
horizontal  and  setting  his  thumb  to  the  notch,  "this  is 
him  in  width;  neat  measure,  Orin,  neat  measure." 

Solemnly  as  it  was  proffered,  Snyder  took  the  rod, 
indicating  the  last  measurements  for  Alderson  Cree, 
and  with  it  balanced  thoughtfully  in  one  hand  he 
looked  curiously  at  it  for  a  few  moments  before  resting 
it  against  the  fence  corner. 

"When'll  ther  funeral  be?"  he  asked  at  length. 

"There  won't  be  no  funeral.  Brother  Hanley's 
erway  holdin'  er  meetin'  in  Big  Breshey,  an'  wouldn't 
git  ther  word  in  time,  so  they  low  jest  ter  bury  him 
termorrer  at  eleven,"  Lloyd  answered. 

"Reckon  they'll  bury  him  up  in  the  old  Cree  buryin' 
ground?" 

"Aha-a;  an'  ther  fellers  what's  goin'  ter  help  with 
ther  grave  better  show  up  right  soon  in  ther  mawnin', 
fer  that  ground's  pretty  nigh  all  slate  an'  terrible  tough 
diggin'." 

"Why'n  they  git  commenced  on  hit  right  erway?" 
Snyder  inquired  dubiously.  Digging  a  grave  in  the 
chill  half-light  of  dawn  for  a  man  one  had  hunted 
with  the  previous  morning  seemed  to  him  a  far  from 
desirable  undertaking. 

"There  was  some  talk  of  hit,  but  Grandmaw  Leister 
wouldn't  hear  ter  havin'  no  grave  she  had  anythin'  ter 
do  with  kep'  open  over  night  —  hit's  sech  powerful 
bad  luck." 

48 


THE  MOULDING  OF  JUDITH  CREE 

"Mis'  Cree  takin'  on  much?" 

"She  ain't  takin'  on  none.  She's  jest  like  she  was 
froze,  cep'  she  keeps  ergoin'  an'  seein'  ter  things. 
Ther  ole  woman's  done  all  ther  hollerin'.  Only  Judy 
says  she  knows  Kip  Ryerson  done  hit,  jest  like  Davy 
says.  She  says  Alderson  an'  him  had  high  words  'fore 
Alderson  went  huntin'  an'  he  made  Kip  clear  out  then, 
an'  Judy  jest  says  over  an'  over,  '  Kip  Ryerson  done 
hit,  I  know  he  done  hit.' " 

"Hev  they  ketched  up  with  Kip  yit?" 

"They's  still  er  huntin'  fer  him.  There  was  some 
said  they  seen  him  on  ther  road  ter  Paine's, 
an'  when  I  come  erway  ther  fellers  was  jest  startin' 
up  there.  Well,"  gathering  up  his  reins  and  giving 
the  mule  a  preliminary  dig,  "I  must  be  travellin'. 
Come  up  in  ther  mawnin'  ef  yer  git  yer  job  done  in 
time." 

Later  still  that  afternoon  men  found  Kip  Ryerson 
at  Stephen  Paine's  where  they  had  consented  to  board 
him,  word  not  having  come  to  them  of  the  murder  on 
Peter's  Ridge.  Arresting  him,  they  carried  him  into 
Wayside  and  placed  him  in  the  county  jail,  there  to 
await  the  sitting  of  the  November  court. 

The  next  morning  —  in  fairness  of  weather  the  twin 
sister  of  the  day  before  —  they  laid  Alderson  Cree 
among  all  his  Cree  connection  in  the  burying-ground 
on  the  top  of  Cree's  Hill,  from  whence  one  looked  all 
up  and  down  the  Jumping  Creek  Draft  and  its  little 
branching  hollows,  wrinkling  away  darkly  into  the 
tawny  yellow  sides  of  Peter's  Ridge  and  the  Drupe 

49 


Mountains;  where  had  lain  all  the  familiar  pathways 
of  the  man's  life. 

There  was  a  large  gathering,  for  the  whole  Draft 
was  present,  and  many  came,  too,  from  over  in  Clear 
Creek.  Up  the  tan-coloured  hillside,  lighted  here  and 
there  by  low  yellow  hickory  bushes,  and  the  occasional 
flare  of  a  red  sumac,  the  crowd  toiled  breathlessly, 
following  close  upon  the  slow  procession  of  six  men 
who  laboured  on  in  front. 

At  the  grave  old  Mrs.  Leister  and  Alderson  Cree's 
sister  were  seized  with  hysteria,  and  there  were  many 
others  of  the  women  who  wept;  among  them,  curiously 
enough,  in  sudden  gusts,  old  Martha  Lamfire.  But 
unsupported  Judith  Cree  stood  up  straight  and  frozen 
by  the  grave,  her  face  stiffened  into  the  look  of  horror 
the  morning  before  had  stamped  upon  it.  Dry-eyed 
and  motionless,  she  watched  all  the  details  of  the 
burial,  from  the  placing  of  the  covering  boards  and  the 
putting  in  of  the  two  wands  —  measures  for  coffin  and 
grave  —  to  the  filling  in,  turn  about,  by  the  men, 
and  the  final  rounding  up  of  the  earth  at  the  end,  and 
the  laying  on  of  a  few  late  chrysanthemums  plucked 
from  different  dooryards  for  Alderson  Cree. 

David,  standing  by  his  mother,  took  pattern  from 
her  stern  presence,  and  his  boyish  face  was  as  emotion 
less  as  her  own. 

There  was  no  funeral  service,  for  the  preacher  being 
away  there  was  no  one  to  hold  it,  therefore  Alderson 
Cree  was  committed  to  the  yellow  and  black  slate  and 
the  assembly  of  his  kinsfolk  with  only  a  short  prayer 


THE  MOULDING  OF   JUDITH   CREE 

and  a  hymn  or  two.  After  it  was  all  over,  Judith 
walked  firmly  down  the  hill  with  David  beside  her, 
through  the  groups  of  dispersing  neighbours,  across  the 
little  runlet  at  the  foot,  and  up  the  opposite  hill  to  her 
own  house.  There  she  picked  up  the  blue-eyed  baby 
from  the  cradle,  and  with  it  held  close  she  sat  for  a  long 
time,  staring  straight  before  her  with  blank  eyes  and 
with  the  terrible  frozen  look  still  upon  her  face.  When 
at  length  she  rose,  the  baby  was  long  since  asleep,  and 
laying  it  back  in  its  cradle  she  turned  herself  fiercely 
to  the  every-day  tasks  at  hand,  picking  them  up  where 
she  had  dropped  them  the  morning  before  —  which 
now  seemed  to  have  been  pushed  a  thousand  years 
into  the  past. 


CHAPTER   IV 

FIGHTING  FIRE 

SOME  three  weeks  after  the  hunt  on  Peter's  Ridge 
Kip  Ryerson  was  tried  at  the  November  court  held  at 
Wayside,  for  the  murder  of  Alderson  Cree,  and  was 
acquitted. 

There  was  little  or  no  evidence  to  show  against 
Ryerson,  merely  the  fact  of  the  quarrel  between  himself 
and  Alderson  before  the  hunt.  No  weapon  had  been 
found  to  connect  him  with  the  murder,  and  no  one 
testified  to  having  seen  him  that  day  upon  Peter's 
Ridge  —  for  old  Martha  Lamfire  kept  her  own  bitter 
counsel  of  what  had  befallen  her. 

Therefore  there  was  no  proof  to  show  Kip  Ryerson 
a  murderer,  but  in  the  hearts  of  the  Jumping  Creek 
people  there  was  against  him  a  great  belief.  Neverthe 
less,  confident  in  his  acquittal,  Ryerson  came  back 
into  the  Draft  on  the  heels  of  the  crowd  which  had 
gone  over  to  Wayside  for  his  trial,  and  established 
himself  at  McAdams's  house ;  for  in  the  face  of  public 
opinion,  and  perhaps  of  his  own  secret  belief,  McAdams 
still  held  a  place  for  him  at  his  sawmill;  for  murderer 
or  no,  a  better  hand  in  the  woods  than  Kip  Ryerson 
was  hard  to  find. 

52 


FIGHTING  FIRE 

There  might  have  been  a  protest  that  night  against 
his  continued  presence  in  the  neighbourhood  had  not 
the  men  of  the  Draft  found  upon  their  return  an  even 
more  crying  need  awaiting  their  attention. 

The  fire  which  for  weeks  had  burned  fitfully  in  the 
Clear  Creek  Mountains,  sending  a  faint  blue  haze  over 
the  country,  and  making  even  the  near  mountains  show 
a  blurred  and  indistinct  outline,  had  crept  down  from 
Clear  Creek  upon  this  last  day  of  the  trial,  when  most  of 
the  men  of  the  Draft  were  absent  at  Wayside,  and  with 
a  sudden  high  wind  at  its  back  had  sprung  across  to 
an  outstretched  arm  of  Peter's  Ridge.  There  it  left  a 
red  serpent  of  destruction,  and  again  with  the  wind  to 
back  it,  at  the  Narrows,  where  a  spur  of  Peter's  Ridge 
and  Round  Top  of  the  Drupe  range  almost  brush 
shoulders,  it  jumped  again  in  little  sparks  and  tongues 
of  flame,  and  fell  upon  the  seven  years'  garnered  fuel 
of  this  section  of  the  Drupe  Mountain.  Where  it 
lighted,  three  years  before  had  been  a  sawmill,  which 
had  left,  on  its  departure,  a  rich  hoard  of  hewn  limbs 
and  branches,  old  stumps,  and  scattered  slabs,  all 
seasoned  and  desiccated  to  a  quick  inflammability, 
and  overlaid  with  drifts  of  dead  leaves.  When  the 
fire's  creeping,  red  fingers  first  clutched  this  treasure- 
trove,  it  drew  a  long,  low,  ominous  breath,  then,  still 
fanned  by  its  ally  the  wind,  it  brightened  to  an  intense 
glow,  and  bursting  into  a  great  roar  like  that  of  falling 
waters  it  leaped  up  the  mountain's  side  in  a  red  sheet 
of  flame,  flinging  up  its  thick  columns  of  smoke  to 
high  Heaven  in  grey  clouds,  shot  through  with  flecks 

53 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

of  dancing  white  and  black  cinders;  while  the  under 
growth  sent  up  a  crackling  scream  of  anguish  as  the 
fire's  hot  fangs  struck  into  it. 

Up  the  mountain  in  front  flew  the  little  advance 
fires,  their  smoke  streaming  out  in  wisps  from  their 
red  centres,  like  the  blown  grey  hair  about  the  flame 
faces  of  the  Furies.  On  they  fled  in  great  leaps,  those 
little  wild  old  women,  a  race  for  life  with  them,  for 
behind  the  ravenous  whole  swept  hard  upon  them, 
seeking  in  its  lustful  course  to  devour  its  own  children. 
Theirs  was  an  agonized  flight,  but  a  braver  existence 
than  that  of  the  rear  flames,  left  to  play  shrinkingly  up 
and  down  dead  trees  and  old  stumps,  where  the  main 
fire  had  but  bitten  and  leaped  on  —  like  jackals  con 
tent  to  make  a  meal  of  the  tiger's  leavings. 

Thus  the  wind  and  fire  held  high  carnival  on  the 
ramparts  of  the  valley  that  day,  and  returning  in  the  late 
afternoon  the  men  of  the  Draft  found  panel  after  panel 
of  toilsomely  laid  fencing  had  been  licked  up,  and  much 
more  in  danger;  and  even  little  cabins  in  obscure 
hollows  threatened,  where  the  now  dangerous  woods 
flung  its  arms  too  closely  about  them.  So,  that  instead 
of  settling  tiredly  to  their  supper  and  minute  descrip 
tions  of  the  court's  proceedings,  after  their  nine  long 
miles  to  and  from  Wayside,  the  men  went  out  in  little 
black  groups  to  match  their  strength  against  God's 
elements,  as  men  have  done  from  forgotten  times,  and 
as  they  will  do  to  the  end. 

That  night  from  the  McClintic's  farm  on  Peter's 
Ridge,  whence  one  could  see  the  Clear  Creek  Moun- 

54 


FIGHTING  FIRE 

tains  to  the  east,  and  in  the  west  those  of  the  Drupe 
range,  with  even  a  glimpse  of  the  northern  head  of 
Peter's  Ridge  itself,  watchers  said  "It  looked  like  ther 
world  was  erfire."  Mountains  blazed  in  all  directions; 
not  as  usual,  with  a  single  fiery  serpent  creeping  its 
way  over  the  hillside,  with  little  scattered  sparks  and 
flames  twinkling  behind  to  mark  its  trail;  here  instead, 
on  the  racked  sides  of  the  Drupe  Mountains  particu 
larly,  whole  acres  flung  up  their  crimson  banners  of 
smoke  and  flame.  And  where  the  fire  had  past  on  a 
thousand  sparks  lit  the  hillside  as  though  a  city  lay 
out  there  in  the  dark. 

The  next  day  the  smoke  lay  over  the  Jumping  Creek 
Draft  like  a  blue  pall,  so  thick  that  objects  scarcely 
fifty  yards  away  were  lost  in  it.  It  hung  before, 
behind,  and  on  each  side,  like  an  elusive  curtain,  and 
one  longed  to  take  hands  and  push  away  the  soft 
oppression.  The  atmosphere  was  suffocatingly  heavy, 
making  the  eyes  burn,  and  the  throat  catch,  and  every 
where  little  dread  black  cinders  floated  silently  down; 
while  the  sun  shorn  of  its  brightness  hung  a  red  ball 
in  the  sky. 

With  this  obscuring  mantle  flung  upon  it,  the  valley 
seemed  detached  from  the  outside  world,  and  shut  in 
upon  itself.  And  more  than  one  man  who  was  abroad 
that  day,  feeling  himself  imprisoned  in  the  intangible 
blue  walls,  cast,  every  now  and  again,  quick,  furtive 
glances  behind,  remembering  the  evil  presence  which 
the  valley  still  harboured,  and  the  horror  which  had 
befallen  Alderson  Cree  even  in  clear  daylight. 

55 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

At  noon  of  that  sombre  day  Judith  Cree  came  out 
through  the  blue  murk  of  smoke  to  the  woodpile  where 
David  was  at  work,  to  call  him  to  dinner.  Her  face 
had  settled  to  the  stricken  look  of  the  morning  when 
they  brought  Alderson  Cree  home,  but  there  showed 
now,  as  well,  about  her  mouth  a  certain  hard  deter 
mination.  An  expression,  which  had  perhaps,  first 
manifested  itself  a  few  days  after  the  burial  of  her 
husband,  when  many  of  the  Cree  and  Leister  con 
nections  had  met  to  settle  her  affairs  for  her.  In  the 
minds  of  all  it  was  a  foregone  conclusion  that  for  her 
to  attempt  carrying  on  the  farm,  with  only  children  so 
young  for  help,  was  an  impossibility;  and  her  uncle, 
who  had  arrived  from  the  Big  Spring  District,  had 
come  prepared  to  see  to  the  renting  of  the  place  for 
her,  and  to  offer  a  home  to  herself  and  the  children, 
he  being  a  widower,  with  a  comfortable  small  farm 
and  no  woman  to  do  for  him.  But  to  their  well- 
arranged  plans  the  Crees  and  Leisters  found  an  un 
looked-for  check.  Judith  had  ideas  of  her  own,  and 
the  abandoning  of  the  old  Cree  homestead,  where  had 
been  passed  all  her  married  days,  found  no  place 
among  them.  In  vain  did  the  gathering  of  her  relations 
in  consternation  fling  argument  after  argument  against 
the  bulwark  of  her  determination;  Judith  met  them  all 
with  the  calmly  repeated  asseveration  that  she  and 
David  could  manage  with  a  little  hired  help  now  and 
again,  and  the  assistance  of  the  younger  children  who 
were  already  able  to  work  a  little.  Through  it  all 
David  stood  valiantly  beside  her,  his  young  eyes,  like 

56 


FIGHTING  FIRE 

the  eyes  of  a  faithful  dog,  lending  her  brave  support. 
And  when  at  length  common  sense  had  triumphed, 
and  all  her  arguments  were  beaten  down,  Judith 
clinched  the  matter  with  a  sudden  burst  of  anger. 

"An5  ef  yer  all  come  here,"  she  cried,  "ter  tell  me 
thet  cos  Kip  Ryerson  killed  Alderson,  me  an'  my 
children's  got  ter  be  run  out  er  our  home  too,  all  I've 
got  ter  say  is  that  ther  sooner  you  all  git  back  ter 
attendin'  ter  yer  own  business  ther  better  I'll  be  pleased 
—  an'  thet's  my  word!" 

And  with  that  she  left  them,  and  walking  proudly 
into  the  back  room  shut  herself  sternly  away  from  all 
the  assembly.  Looking  into  one  another's  faces  the 
Crees  and  Leisters  read  their  defeat,  and  one  after 
another  faded  away  to  their  own  homes. 

This  crisis  in  her  life  had  brought  to  Judith  some 
thing  new.  Before,  a  woman  all  gentle  yielding  and 
placidity,  she  was  become  now  one  of  a  hard,  almost  a 
fierce  determination.  But  it  was  a  determination  waked, 
not  created,  by  her  calamity;  unguessed  it  had  lain 
always  at  the  back  of  her  emotions,  only  heretofore 
there  had  been  nothing  to  call  it  into  being. 

Watching  her  as  she  came  across  the  yard  toward 
him,  David  felt  the  change  in  her,  with  the  flashing 
intuition  possessed  by  some  children;  felt  it,  and  child 
like  stored  it  in  his  mind  as  a  fact,  without  fully  knowing 
what  it  was  nor  whence  it  came. 

As  his  mother  reached  him  and  started  to  speak, 
suddenly,  looking  past  his  shoulder,  the  words  died  on 
her  lips,  her  eyes  dilated,  and  in  her  throat  was  a  low 

57 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

sound  of  fear  and  loathing,  as  though  she  had  seen  a 
snake;  and  turning  about  without  a  word,  she  almost 
ran  back  into  the  house.  David  spun  round  to  look. 
There,  through  the  blue  curtain  of  smoke,  he  made  out 
Kip  Ryerson  ascending  the  hill  beside  the  house, 
evidently  returning  to  the  sawmill  after  his  noon  meal. 
At  the  sight  David  dropped  the  axe  he  held,  and,  his 
whole  small  body  stiffening  with  hate,  he  went  swiftly 
into  the  house  after  his  mother. 

He  found  her  where  she  had  dropped  down  on  a 
chair,  looking  white  and  shaken;  and  walking  straight 
up  to  her  he  laid  his  rough  little  hand  on  her  shoulder, 
a  show  of  affection  which  was  rare  with  him. 

"  He  sha'n't  never  go  by  this  house  ergin,  Mammy," 
he  said  in  a  low  voice  muffled  by  passion.  "  Not  never 
ergin  —  I  promise  yer." 

His  wonderful  dark  eyes  looked  at  her  very  young 
and  full  of  tenderness,  but  about  his  mouth  was  a 
determined  look  that  was  years  older. 

That  night  Robert  Reddin's  fences  were  in  danger, 
and  many  of  the  men  of  the  Draft  turned  out  to  help 
him  fight  fire.  With  rakes  and  forked  sticks  they 
swept  a  path  along  all  his  line  of  fencing,  down  to  old 
man  Leatherbee's,  where  he  and  his  three  boys  turned 
out  to  meet  them,  and  carry  the  path  around  their 
own  lines,  and  on  until  it  safely  joined  the  broad  road 
leading  to  the  farms  on  the  top  of  Drupe  Mountain; 
while  the  other  men  turned  back  along  the  path  firing 
against  the  wild  fire  as  they  went. 

The  usual  dark  mystery  of  the  mountain  was  changed 
58 


FIGHTING  FIRE 

that  night  to  a  blaze  of  lurid  smoke  and  flame,  and  its 
stillness  was  broken  by  the  shouts  of  the  men  as  they 
called  scraps  of  news  to  one  another  over  the  crackle 
and  roar  of  the  fire ;  by  halloos,  or  an  occasional  lilt  of 
song,  as  when  Orin  Snyder,  in  his  usual  boisterous 
spirits,  heralded  his  approach  with  a  snatch  of  "  Old 
Dan  Tucker,"  shouted  out  at  the  top  of  his  lungs. 

"I  be  dogged  ef  it  ain't  ther  finest  show  er  fire  I 
ever  seed,"  he  cried  jovially.  "An'  I've  seed  this  ole 
mountain  lit  up  more'n  onct." 

"You  oughtn't  ter  talk  that  kereless  way  erbout  this 
here  fire,  Orin,"  Lloyd  Johnson  broke  in,  complain- 
ingly.  "I  take  hit  this  is  er  erfliction  ther  Almighty's 
sent  down  on  this  Draft.  An'  ef  ther  Lord's  pleased 
ter  send  us  erfliction  hit  don't  seem  right  fer  folks  ter 
try  ter  git  pleasure  out  er  hit." 

"Hit  ain't  no  erfliction  ter  me  yit,"  Snyder  returned 
buoyantly,  "hit  ain't  teched  er  rail  er  my  fencin'  so 
fer." 

"Wai,  now,  there's  jest  ther  difference,"  a  voice 
struck  in  out  of  the  near-by  shadows,  "  hit's  et  up  forty 
panel  er  Lloyd's  back  fence,  so  he  natchelly  thinks 
hit's  an  erfliction  on  ther  whole  Draft  —  or  was  hit  ther 
whole  world  you  said?"  The  voice  paused  in  polite 
inquiry. 

"Wai  I'll  be  dogged  ef  here  ain't  George  crep'  out 
er  his  hole  ter  see  what  er  little  work  looks  like ;  reckon 
hit  mus'  be  Groun'  Hog  day,  sure  'nough,"  cried 
Snyder,  whirling  upon  the  shadows,  which  revealed  the 
storekeeper  seated  placidly  on  a  log.  Hedrick  had  no 

59 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

love  for  fighting  fire,  but  the  excitement  had  drawn 
away  from  the  store  all  its  usual  evening  assembly,  and 
there  was  not  left  even  one  opponent  at  the  checker 
board. 

"A-haa!"  he  returned  imperturbably  to  the  circle 
of  firelight  directly  in  front  of  him;  "take  er  right  good 
look  at  me  an'  yer  won't  see  nothin'  mo'  than  er  man 
tryin'  ter  bear  erfliction  like  ther  Lord  would  have  him 
do." 

"Reckon  most  fellers  could  bear  this  erfliction  ef 
they  didn't  hev  er  stick  er  timber,  er  panel  er  fencin', 
ter  think  erbout,"  Lloyd  Johnson  retorted,  stung  to 
peevishness. 

Grin's  simple  reply  was,  "Oh,  go  ter  H — 1." 

Hedrick  kicked  his  feet  gently  against  the  log. 

"I  never  visits  at  er  gentleman's  house  when  that 
gentleman's  erway  from  home,"  he  returned  sweetly 
and  pointedly  to  Orin's  remark. 

Though  up  and  down  the  fire-line  the  men  shouted 
scraps  of  gossip  and  banter  to  one  another,  yet  when 
they  drew  together  in  close  knots  the  talk  turned 
always  on  Kip  Ryerson  and  his  acquittal.  For  one 
cannot  shout  such  things  above  the  roar  of  flames,  and 
besides,  David  might  be  somewhere  in  the  shadow. 

"  Did  yer  fellers  know  Ed  McAdams  has  took  Kip 
back  ter  work  at  ther  mill?"  Hedrick  inquired,  rising 
from  his  log  and  emerging  into  the  circle  of  light  by 
Lloyd  and  Orin.  Lloyd  paused  with  uplifted  rake. 

"Is  that  er  fact?"  he  said. 

"I  knowed  hit,"  said  Orin,  "an'  when  I  heered  hit, 
60 


FIGHTING  FIRE 

I'd  ther  biggest  mind  in  ther  world  ter  tell  Ed  that  ef 
hit  was  murderers  he  was  lookin'  fer,  ther  wa'n't  but 
one  man  in  ther  Draft  was  qualified  ter  work  fer 
him." 

"  Well,  whyn't  yer  do  hit  ?  "  Hedrick  inquired.  Orin 
shook  his  head  sadly  and  beat  out  a  little  tongue  of 
flame  that  had  assayed  to  leap  the  path. 

"I  didn't  do  hit,"  he  said,  "cos  I  knowed  er  feller 
with  er  wife  an'  family  ter  support  couldn't  efford  ter 
be  too  smart." 

"Looks  like  he  oughtn't  ter  stay  round  here," 
Johnson  ventured  feebly. 

"Looks  like  he's  goin'  ter  jest  ther  same,"  Hedrick 
retorted,  "less  some  er  ther  fellers  don't  git  tergether 
an'  let  him  know  he  ain't  wanted  in  this  deestrict 
no  mo'." 

"I  wonder  did  he  do  hit?"  Johnson  speculated. 
Hedrick  snorted. 

"Do  hit?"  he  cried.  "I  know  he  done  hit,  an' 
what's  mo'  every  livin'  soul  in  this  Draft  knows  he 
done  hit." 

"Well,  I  wished  he  wouldn't  er  come  back,"  said 
Johnson,  still  feebly.  "Seems  like  after  what's  hap 
pened  he'd  orter  stayed  erway." 

"Seems  like  ter  me  ther  fellers  orter  make  him  stay 
erway,"  Hedrick  muttered  under  his  breath. 

Men  were  wise  when  they  dropped  their  voices  in 
talking  of  Kip  Ryerson,  for  fear  David  might  be 
present  somewhere  in  the  shadows.  Their  guess  was 
right,  for  early  in  the  evening  saw  him  seated  twenty 

61 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

yards  or  so  back  of  the  firing  line,  watching  the  activity 
before  him  but  taking  no  part  in  it.  When  he  had 
first  come  he  had  been  hailed  by  one  of  the  small 
Reddin  boys  with  "Git  er  forked  stick  an'  come  on 
help  rake." 

"How  long  will  you  all  be  out  here?"  David  de 
manded. 

"  We's  jest  goin'  ter  rake  round  Pappy's  fences  down 
ter  ole  man  Leatherbee's  an'  then  fire,  an'  leave  one 
er  two  fellers  ter  see  hit  don't  break  over.  Reckon 
we'll  be  through  by  ten,"  the  other  answered,  and  one 
saw  that  the  chief  burden  of  affairs  lay  upon  his  young 
shoulders. 

David  turned  off  the  path  and  dropped  down  on 
the  soft  leaves.  Seated  back  there  in  the  brush  he 
watched  the  scene  before  him  and  waited  his  time.  It 
was  a  weird  sight.  The  dancing  firelight,  the  voices 
all  about,  and  the  men's  faces  coming  every  now  and 
then  out  of  the  gloom,  and  over  everything  the  rosy  pall 
of  smoke.  The  fire  the  men  had  set  burned  slowly  up 
the  gentle  slopes  towards  the  wild  fire,  but  up  the 
steep  ridges  it  raced  and  jumped,  bounding  from  one 
overhanging  bush  to  another,  and  roaring  to  meet  its 
enemy  the  wild  fire,  and  die  in  its  fierce  embrace. 

Sitting  back  there  apart  from  it  all  David  expe 
rienced  a  strange  feeling  of  aloofness,  as  though  he  were 
dead,  and  in  spirit  had  come  back  for  a  moment  to 
glance  at  the  world  and  his  old  associates.  He  won 
dered  suddenly  if  perhaps  his  father  was  not  in  truth 
doing  just  that.  It  was  strange  to  think  he  might  be 

62 


FIGHTING  FIRE 

beside  him  in  the  shadow.  Strange,  but  not  terrifying, 
and  as  the  thought  came  to  him  David  clasped  his 
hands  involuntarily  and  whispered,  "I  won't  fergit, 
Pappy,  I've  promised  yer,"  dedicating  himself  anew  to 
his  oath. 

As  it  neared  ten  o'clock  and  the  men  were  gathering 
in  groups  preparatory  to  going  home,  David  rose  and 
crept  to  the  head  of  the  path,  and  a  man  raking  care 
lessly  there  to  make  everything  secure  was  startled  by 
a  pair  of  blazing  eyes  and  a  small  white  face  which 
came  out  of  the  gloom. 

"Why,  hello,  Davy!"  he  said  in  a  voice  a  little 
shaken,  for  there  was  something  sudden  and  unusual 
in  the  boy's  appearance.  David  walked  straight  up 
to  him. 

"Will  yer  come  down  ter  Mr.  Reddin's  hay  barn  in 
the  near  field,  when  yer  git  done  here?"  he  demanded. 

"What  fer?" 

"Per  ter  hear  something  I've  got  ter  tell  yer  all," 
David  returned. 

The  man  hesitated  a  moment,  looking  at  him  cu 
riously. 

"I  reckon,"  he  said  at  length,  and,  satisfied,  David 
passed  on  down  the  path,  bringing  the  same  request  to 
each  man  he  came  to.  Some  tried  to  argue  and 
question  him;  some  were  half  angry;  and  some,  but 
these  were  only  a  few,  laughed;  but  because  of  some 
thing  in  the  boy's  manner,  and  in  view  of  the  recent 
happenings,  they  one  and  all  came  down  to  the  old 
hay  barn,  their  lanterns  swinging  circles  of  light  about 

63 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

their  legs,  and  the  burning  mountain  at  their  back 
sending  a  faint  glow  after  them. 

David  waited  their  coming  in  silence,  seated  on  an 
abandoned  piece  of  farm  machinery.  A  strangely 
small  and  wistful  little  figure,  the  sight  of  whom  caused 
more  than  one  man  a  quick  stab  of  pity. 

When  at  length  they  were  all  there,  he  stepped 
from  his  perch  and  stood  up  before  them. 

That  morning  when  he  had  stood  by  his  mother  and 
laid  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder,  there  had  been  a 
touch  of  his  future  manhood  about  him,  but  now  — 
such  is  the  fluctuation  of  childhood  —  faced  by  all 
those  grown  men,  he  seemed  to  have  slipped  back 
several  years  and  showed  curiously  young  and  appeal 
ing,  and  George  Hedrick,  for  one,  caught  himself 
whispering  under  his  breath,  "Po'  little  feller!" 

He  wore  no  hat,  and  his  hair,  damp  from  the  night 
air,  lay  heavy  and  dark  on  his  forehead,  beneath  which 
his  black  eyes  burnt  like  sparks  from  the  mountain 
fire.  His  face  was  colourless  from  emotion,  and  when 
he  spoke  his  voice  was  a  little  uncertain  and  tremulous. 

"I  want  ter  tell  yer  all,"  he  said  simply,  "that 
McAdams  has  took  Kip  Ryerson  back  ter  work  at 
ther  mill." 

The  men  were  silent  at  his  words,  shuffling  their  feet 
and  looking  down;  it  was  no  news  to  most  of  them. 
David  waited  a  moment,  watching  their  impassive 
faces  in  surprise. 

"He  went  by  our  house  this  mawnin';  my  Mammy 
seen  him,"  he  said;  surely  that  they  would  understand. 

64 


FIGHTING  FIRE 

Still  the  men  were  silent.  Suddenly  it  dawned  upon 
him  with  an  overwhelming  astonishment  that  these  men 
knew  Kip  Ryerson  had  been  taken  back  at  the  mill  — 
knew  it,  and  had  not  raised  one  word  in  protest. 

"Did  you  all  know  hit?"  he  said  slowly,  in  bewil 
derment.  "Did  you  know  McAdams  had  took  him 
back?" 

There  was  such  a  hurt  and  stinging  reproach  in  his 
voice,  that  none  of  the  men  found  anything  to  reply, 
save  Lloyd  Johnson. 

"Ther  law  says  Kip  ain't  guilty,"  he  was  moved  to 
venture  in  defense. 

David  caught  his  breath  sharply  and  his  eyes  blazed. 

"You  know  he's  guilty!"  he  flung  back,  his  head 
up  and  nostrils  quivering.  And  Orin  Snyder  was 
heard  to  mutter  under  his  breath  —  "Ther  law? 
H— 11!" 

David  regarded  the  still  silent  group  a  moment 
longer,  half  hopefully;  then,  as  there  was  no  response, 
a  sudden  white  flame  of  anger  leaped  up  in  his  face, 
and  he  beat  his  clinched  fists  hard  together. 

"Yer  cowards!"  he  cried.  "Every  one  er  yer's 
cowards,  cowards!  Yer  know  Kip  Ryerson  killed  my 
Pappy,  what  was  a  good  friend  ter  all  er  yer.  Stole 
up  on  him  an'  shot  him  in  ther  back.  Yer  know  he 
done  hit.  Every  one  er  yer  knows  he  done  hit!  An' 
yit  yer  let  him  go  on  stayin'  right  here  cos  ther  ain't 
one  er  yer's  got  ther  sand  ter  run  him  out.  Yer  'fraid 
er  him!  'Fraid  er  him!  Every  one  er  yer's  'fraid  er 
him,  an'  'fraid  er  Ed  McAdams,  cos  yer  might  lose  yer 

65 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

job  at  ther  mill.  Yer  'fraidl  'fraid!  'fraidl"  he 
screamed,  mad  with  passion,  and  beating  his  hands 
together  at  each  word.  "  'Fraid!  'fraid!  -  "  suddenly 
his  voice  broke  in  its  shrillness,  and  choked  away  into 
silence.  Panting  he  stood  before  them,  a  shaken  little 
figure,  swallowing  hard,  his  eyes  wide  and  bright  with 
tears,  and  his  breath  coming  in  long  quivers,  and 
more  than  one  man  dropped  his  eyes,  ashamed  to  stare 
at  the  child's  bared  emotion.  For  only  a  moment  he 
stood  thus,  righting  down  his  tears,  then  with  a  hard- 
caught  breath  he  took  hold  upon  himself,  and  when 
at  length  he  spoke  again  his  voice  was  low  and  per 
fectly  steady,  and  for  a  flash  his  soul  looked  out  of 
his  eyes. 

"I'll  be  er  man  some  day  myself,"  he  said  simply, 
"an'  then  I'll  not  be  askin'  help  of  any  of  yer."  And 
turning  with  his  head  high,  and  his  hands  still  clinched, 
he  went  away  into  the  dark,  comforting  arms  of  the 
night,  a  proud,  defeated  little  figure. 

For  a  space  silence  held  the  group  of  men,  then  writh 
a  quick,  stern  gesture  George  Hedrick  pulled  his  hat 
hard  down  over  his  eyes. 

"I'll  not  sleep  ternight,"  he  cried,  "till  ther  Draft's 
clear  er  that  devil!" 

With  a  whoop  Orin  Snyder  caught  up  his  lantern, 
"I'm  with  yer!"  he  cried.  "Dogged  ef  I  ain't,  too," 
Robert  Reddin  cried;  and  inspired  by  these  three,  in 
a  moment  the  men  burst  out  of  the  shed  like  a  wave, 
heading  for  McAdams's  house,  even  Lloyd  Johnson 
following  in  the  rear.  On  the  way  they  overtook 

66 


FIGHTING  FIRE 

David,  and  Orin  Snyder  flung  his  great  arm  around  the 
boy's  neck  and  swept  him  on  with  the  crowd.  Arrived 
at  McAdams's  Robert  Reddin  and  Orin  went  inside, 
and  after  a  short  delay  brought  out  Kip  Ryerson  in  a 
cursing  fury  of  rage. 

"What  in  H — 11  der  yer  come  here  fer  er  draggin' 
me  out  er  my  bed?"  he  screamed. 

"We  come  here,"  said  George  Hedrick,  stepping 
quietly  up  to  him,  "ter  tell  yer  that  this  here  little 
Draft  ain't  big  ernough  ter  hold  you  an'  us  both,  an' 
ther  sooner  you  clear  out  er  hit  ther  better  fer  you." 

"Who's  ter  say  so?"  Ryerson  cried  defiantly. 

Hedrick  turned  to  the  group  at  his  back,  and  little 
man  though  he  was,  there  was  suddenly  something 
superb  about  him. 

"Who's  ter  say  so?"  he  cried.  "Fellers,  step  up 
here  an'  let  him  see  who's  ter  say  so." 

At  his  words  the  men  surged  forward  out  of  the 
gloom,  and  spread  up  the  steps  and  onto  the  porch  of 
McAdams's  house,  holding  up  their  lanterns  so  that 
the  light  fell  on  their  determined  faces.  And  as 
Ryerson  recognized  man  after  man  he  knew,  the 
angry  scarlet  of  his  face  fell  to  a  sickly  shade  of  grey. 

"Now  reckon  yer  see  who's  ter  say  so,"  Hedrick 
went  on  arrogantly.  "An'  reckon  yer  see  hit  ain't  a 
lot  er  men  hidin'  behind  masks  an'  skeered  ter  death. 
An'  yer  jest  listen  ter  me,  Kip  Ryerson,"  he  said, 
slowly,  bringing  his  face  close  to  the  other's  scared 
white  one,  "you  git  cleared  outer  here  by  tomorrer 
mawnin',  er  by  termorrer  night  there'll  be  er  place  in 

67 


THE  SOWING   OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

this  Draft  folks'll  show  where  there  was  er  lynchin'  like 
they  do  over  at  Wayside,  only  this  time  hit'll  be  er 
white  man  an'  not  jest  er  nigger  what  was  lynched." 

At  his  words,  backed  by  ejaculations  of  "  Dogged  ef 
that  ain't  so!"  "That's  right!"  "A-ha-a!"  "Now 
yer  talkin'!"  from  the  other  men,  a  frightened  shudder 
swept  over  Kip  Ryerson,  and  he  was  silent. 

"Now  you've  got  our  word,"  Hedrick  concluded, 
"an'  hit's  jest  like  I  tell  you,  an'  yer'd  better  not  stay 
round  these  parts  study  in'  on  what  we've  said  too 
long."  Falling  back  from  Ryerson,  and  followed  by 
the  others,  he  stepped  off  the  porch,  and  in  a  few 
moments  there  was  nothing  left  to  tell  of  the  visit  save 
the  disappearing  twinkle  of  lanterns,  the  barking  of 
the  aroused  dogs  up  and  down  the  Draft,  and  in 
Kip  Ryerson's  heart  a  great  fear. 

David  stole  away  home  by  himself,  crying  all  the  way, 
partly  because  he  was  unstrung,  but  chiefly  because 
the  sight  of  Ryerson  rent  him  anew  with  an  awful, 
sickening  hatred.  At  home  he  crept  to  his  mother's 
bedside  and  told  her  what  had  happened,  and  after 
wards,  when  he  was  in  his  own  bed,  he  heard  her,  for 
the  first  time  since  his  father's  death,  weeping  as  though 
her  heart  would  break. 

After  a  long  time  of  tossing  wakefulness,  with  the 
blood  pounding  through  his  body  in  fever  currents, 
David  fell  asleep  to  dream  of  a  sheltered,  sunny  spot, 
shadowed  slightly  by  autumn  foliage;  of  the  rushing 
sound  of  a  deer's  anguished  flight  with  the  dogs  hard 
upon  it;  of  the  fleeing  of  some  one  through  the  under- 

68 


FIGHTING   FIRE 

brush;  and  of  something  appalling  which  he  could  not 
see,  for  it  lay  just  out  of  his  dream  sight ;  and  he  woke 
himself  crying  again,  "I  won't  fergit,  Pappy!  I  won't 
fergit!" 

That  night  a  belated  thunder-storm  gathered  itself 
toward  morning  and  sweeping  up  the  valley  fell  upon 
the  suffering  hillsides,  in  the  glad  relief  of  driven  sheets 
of  rain;  and  when  next  day  the  sun  came  up  serenely, 
it  looked  upon  mountains  sapphire  and  topaz  clear, 
freed  from  fire  and  smoke,  with  only  here  and  there  a 
smouldering  stump,  as  evidence  of  what  had  been. 

And  Kip  Ryerson  was  gone,  no  one  knew  where; 
and  in  the  crystal  atmosphere  David  drew  a  deep, 
free  breath,  and  his  spirit  leaped  up  in  a  great  relief. 


69 


CHAPTER   V 

ROBERT  REDDIN  PLANTS  HIS  CORN 

TEN  times,  on  its  silent  journey,  the  sun  had  stolen 
South,  to  set  in  cold  winter  skies  of  yellow  and  red  at 
the  notch  on  Hope's  Nob;  and  now  for  the  eleventh 
time  was  creeping  North  again,  making  for  its  sum 
mer  goal  Round  Top  of  the  Drupe  Mountains,  since 
that  hunting  day  on  Peter's  Ridge  when  a  single  shot 
had  set  Alderson  Cree  so  suddenly  on  an  unknown 
pathway  —  apparently  unknown,  that  is,  though  there 
is  a  chance  that  when  he  struck  into  it  he  found  it 
all  at  once  more  familiar  even  than  the  one  he  had 
just  left. 

Ten  years  drifting  over  the  Jumping  Creek  Draft 
had  left  little  enough  of  change  to  mark  their  passage. 
Babies  had  been  born;  children  had  grown  up;  young 
people  married  and  settled  to  homes  of  their  own;  and 
in  the  natural  course  of  events  a  few  old  people  had 
gone  to  see  what  had  become  of  their  contemporaries. 
A  few  families  had  moved  into  adjoining  counties  in 
the  wake  of  some  sawmill,  and  one  or  two  had  even 
gone  West.  The  Jumping  Creek  had  been  bridged 
where  it  joins  the  North  Fork;  a  wagon  road  cut  over 
the  Drupe  Mountains  down  to  the  river,  and  now  there 

70 


ROBERT  REDDIN  PLANTS  HIS  CORN 

was  even  talk  of  a  railroad  to  come  within  three  miles 
of  the  Draft  in  the  near  future.  On  Peter's  Ridge 
perhaps  a  few  more  fields  stood  out  in  cleared  patches ; 
and  the  velvet  outline  of  foliage  on  the  Drupe  Moun 
tains  was  also  broken  here  and  there  by  little  farms; 
while  from  more  and  more  hollows  the  deadly  smoke 
of  sawmills  curled  up  in  answer  to  the  shriek  of  great 
logs,  as  the  saw's  teeth  bit  into  them.  Hideous  mon 
sters,  these  mills,  dwelling  in  bosky  hollows  amid  the 
bracken,  and  sending  forth  a  baleful  breath  of  devas 
tation  over  the  surrounding  country,  like  some  terrifying 
dragon  of  old;  while  the  ravished  trees  cry  out  for  a 
St.  George  to  deliver  them. 

The  hum  of  the  spinning-wheel  is  heard  in  fewer  of" 
the  cabins,  and  the  looms  have  almost  all  been  rele 
gated  to  the  lofts.  But  on  the  whole  these  ten  years 
have  changed  little  in  the  Draft.  George  Hedrick, 
gone  a  trifle  grey  on  the  temples,  and  with  a  somewhat 
hunched-up  stoop,  still  keeps  the  store  at  the  cross 
roads,  dispensing  the  necessities  of  life  and  the  general 
gossip  —  its  luxury  —  to  all  comers;  and  for  the  most 
part  the  little  farms  look  across  the  valley  at  one 
another,  with  the  same  people  toiling  in  their  fields  or 
moving  in  and  out  of  the  doorways  of  their  dwellings, 
as  of  yore.  Certainly  the  little  stretch  of  meadow  land 
that  looks  over  the  county  road  at  the  field  opposite 
still  belongs  to  the  Crees,  and  the  field  it  faces  is  Robert 
Reddin's  as  of  old. 

And  in  this  same  field,  on  a  May  morning,  ten  years 
and  more  since  the  funeral  of  Alderson  Cree,  Robert 


THE  SOWING   OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

Reddin,  with  most  of  his  family  to  help  him,  went 
forth  to  plant  his  corn. 

Seven  o'clock  of  a  May  morning  in  the  Jumping 
Creek  Draft,  and  the  brown  earth  following  the  plough 
share  ! 

Ye  gods!  what  a  world  it  is!  With  Heaven  to  look 
forward  to,  and  every  year  a  new  earth  at  spring-time ! 
For  the  senses,  perfume  and  bird  song,  and  tinkle  of 
spring  waters ;  garlanded  fence  rows,  and  mountains  all 
a  misty  green;  and  for  the  heart  a  wild  uplifting  and 
a  hidden  singing. 

All  up  and  down  the  Draft  that  day,  the  bees  and 
butterflies  were  dead  drunk  with  perfume  and  honey, 
and  blinded  by  the  rainbow  colours  the  shrubs  and 
flowers  put  on  for  them.  Such  a  wealth  of  bloom 
and  ungathered  honey  distressed  the  bees  exceedingly, 
and  nightfall  found  more  than  one  conscientious  and 
exhausted  rover  down  with  nervous  prostration.  But 
the  butterflies  danced  intoxicated  reels  all  day  long  in 
the  waves  of  perfumed  heat,  and  cared  not  one  jot 
how  much  store  of  honey  went  to  waste  so  long  as 
enough  remained  for  their  banqueting;  nor  what  befell 
the  world  in  general  while  there  was  perfume  and 
sunshine  left  for  them,  with  a  cool  green  leaf  to  drop 
to  sleep  on  when  night  put  an  end  to  their  mad  day 
of  revelry.  And  the  radiant  blue  sky  bent  over  all, 
and  smiled  as  tenderly  on  the  wanton  butterflies  as  on 
the  bees;  and  laughed  down  at  the  absurd  little  shreds 
and  patches  of  itself  that  the  tiny  brooks  and  ponds 
gave  back.  And  for  the  sky's  courtesy  and  smiles 

72 


ROBERT  REDDIN  PLANTS  HIS  CORN 

the  old  earth  sent  up  in  return  breaths  of  delicious 
perfumes,  and  every  now  and  again  a  little  bird  mes 
senger  left  its  mating  and  nest  building  and  flew  up 
and  up  into  the  blue,  with  a  song  so  bursting  with 
delight  of  life  and  love  that  only  the  sky  itself  was  big 
enough  to  hold  it  all. 

"Nice  corn-plantin'  weather,"  Ellen  Daw  called  out 
shyly  to  the  Reddins,  as  she  swung  past  their  field  on 
her  rickety  old  horse,  making  for  the  mill.  Let  her 
words  stand  for  the  summing  up  of  spring  in  the  Jump 
ing  Creek  Draft.  "Nice  corn-plantin'  weather — " 
Heavens!  to  those  who  know,  what  a  glad  time  of  pure 
delight  it  is! 

"Mary,"  said  Bobbie  Reddin,  the  youngest  who 
took  the  field  that  day,  a  gentleman  verging  on 
eight  years,  who  toiled  faithfully  after  his  sister, 
dropping  soup  beans  where  she  dropped  corn  — 
"Mary,  I  seed  Lucy  drop  pretty  nigh  ten  grains  er 
corn  in  one  hill,  an'  sted  er  stoppin'  ter  pick  'em 
out,  she  jest  tromped  'em  all  in,  so's  nobody  wouldn't 
see,  an'  went  on." 

Mary  Reddin,  from  her  slender  height  of  eighteen 
years,  smiled  sweetly  down  at  the  little  brother's  scan 
dalized  face,  but  she  made  no  reply,  keeping  on  swiftly 
up  the  furrows,  her  delicate  figure  swaying  over  the 
uneven  ground  as  graceful  as  a  young  sapling  in  the 
wind.  The  little  brother's  face  did  not  lose  its  per 
turbed  crease.  At  eight  years  old  corn-planting  is  a 
matter  of  intense  moment;  at  eighteen,  on  the  contrary, 
there  are  other  things  which  appear  more  important, 

73 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

though  afterwards  the  seriousness  of  corn-planting  is 
again  apt  to  reassert  itself. 

"I  don't  see  why,"  he  complained,  "Pappy  don't 
let  me  drop  com  sted  er—  "  with  bitterness  —  "these 
yer  ole  beans.  I'd  do  hit  er  heap  sight  better'n  Lucy 
kin."  He  spoke  with  feeling,  for  in  corn-planting,  as 
in  most  things,  there  is  preferment,  and  the  bean  pail 
to  the  young  is  a  bitter  degradation,  it  being  the  badge 
of  extreme  youth  and  incompetence. 

"Mary,"  he  persisted,  "how  old  was  you  when 
Pappy  let  you  commence  droppin'  corn?  An'  how 
long  —  "  not  stopping  for  an  answer  to  his  first  question 
-  "will  hit  be  'fore  he  lets  me?" 

Mary  turned  just  long  enough  to  hold  up  one  small 
brown  hand,  measuring  off  half  of  her  little  finger  with 
her  thumb. 

"I  reckon  hit'll  be  erbout  so  long,"  she  said  tanta- 
lizingly. 

"Aw,"  he  exclaimed,  infinitely  disgusted,  for  he  had 
awaited  her  answer  as  breathlessly  as  the  faithful  of 
old  awaited  the  answers  of  the  oracles.  "Aw  pshaw! 
Mary,  how  long  sure  'nough?" 

Mary's  face  looked  down  at  him  mischievously  from 
the  pinky  depths  of  her  sunbonnet. 

"When  yer  es  strong  es  ther  jay-bird  was,"  she 
replied  with  a  great  solemnity. 

"Aw,"  he  repeated  suspiciously.  But  his  curiosity 
presently  got  the  better  of  him  and,  "  How  strong  was 
he,  Mary?"  he  demanded. 


74 


ROBERT  REDDIN  PLANTS  HIS  CORN 

" '  Jay-bird  pulled  ther  two  horse  plough, 
Sparrer  why  not  you  ? 
Legs  so  long  an'  slimber, 
I  'fraid  er  might  break  'em  in  two!'" 

Mary  chanted  gaily. 

"  Now,  honey,  you  jest  listen  ter  me,"  she  went  on. 
"Jest  say  ter  yerself,  'right  foot,  lef  foot,  drop,'  an' 
take  er  step  each  time,  an'  ef  yer  jest  step  out  big 
ernough  hit'll  bring  yer  right  ter  ther  hill  every  time, 
an'  hit's  er  charm'll  git  yer  ter  droppin'  corn  most 
d'reckly." 

The  little  brother  looked  at  her  in  serious  question 
a  moment,  then  satisfied  that  her  intentions  were  good, 
he  fell  obediently  to  repeating  the  magic  words  under 
his  breath.  "Right  foot,  lef  foot,  drop;  lef  foot, 
right  foot,  drop,"  and  in  the  depths  of  Mary's  sun- 
bonnet  a  little  dimple  looked  out  of  her  cheek  an 
instant  in  triumph  over  the  successful  stemming  of  the 
youngster's  flow  of  questions,  which  left  her  leisure  to 
listen  once  more  to  a  certain  voice  which  came  to  her 
musically  across  the  fragrant  field,  in  the  soft  language 
of  the  plough  —  "Whoa  —  haw,  haup!  Gee!  Gee! 
Whoa  — haw!" 

The  voice  was  that  of  David  Cree;  and  if  any  one 
had  told  Mary  Reddin  that  her  father's  voice  and  that 
of  her  oldest  brother  Jack  came  over  the  field  from 
their  ploughs  with  just  the  same  mellowed  intonation 
as  did  David's,  Mary  would  have  found  it  hard  to 
believe. 

75 


THE   SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

David  had  only  come  off  the  log  drive,  which  the 
spring  rains  had  brought  down  the  river,  the  day 
before,  and  finding  Robert  Reddin  short  of  a  hand  in 
his  corn-field,  had  come  over  to  put  in  a  day's  work 
for  him.  He  had  got  home  late  the  previous  night, 
after  the  whole  winter  spent  in  camp,  and  starting  in 
early  on  the  corn-field  he  and  Mary  had  found  time 
to  exchange  hardly  more  than  the  usual  greetings  - 
though  both  knew  there  was  much  waiting  to  be  said. 

From  the  boy  of  twelve,  David  was  shot  up  into  a 
giant  of  a  fellow  of  twenty-two.  His  face  in  its  dark 
setting  of  hair  was  strong  and  open,  and  usually 
serenely  untroubled,  with  the  serenity  of  perfect  physical 
health  and  strength.  But  there  were  times  still  when 
a  sombre  look  crossed  it,  and  when  about  his  mouth 
and  in  his  eyes  there  dwelt  an  expression  which  showed 
that  he  had  felt  more  keenly  the  edge  of  life  than  have 
most  young  men  of  his  age. 

Physically  he  was  perfect;  and  among  the  men  of 
the  neighbourhood  he  was  accounted  the  strongest  man 
all  up  and  down  the  Draft,  as  his  father  had  been 
before  him.  Even  in  the  log  camps  where  the  strong 
men  from  several  counties  are  drawn  together,  and 
where  many  trials  of  strength  take  place,  he  had  not 
found  any  that  were  quite  his  match.  There  was 
something  almost  terrifying  about  his  great  strength. 
He  felt  it  himself,  and  many  of  his  movements  showed 
a  certain  reserve  as  though  he  half  feared  to  put  forth 
his  whole  force.  Once,  in  camp,  angered  by  something 
David  had  said  in  jest,  a  man  had  suddenly  drawn  a 

76 


ROBERT  REDDIN  PLANTS  HIS  CORN 

pistol  upon  him.  For  we'eks  afterwards  David  felt  the 
curious  gritty  snap  of  the  man's  arm  under  his  furious 
hands,  and  the  choking  leap  of  anger  within  himself 
he  never  forgot.  It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  ever 
really  come  face  to  face  with  the  devil  of  passion  and 
strength  which  lay  within  him.  It  was  a  subduing 
knowledge,  and  one  that  kept  him  out  of  many  chance 
fights.  Fights  that  most  men  would  have  gone  into 
and  come  out  of  without  anything  more  serious  to 
show  than  a  black  eye  and  a  few  bruises.  But  David 
had  come  to  know  himself  too  well  to  dare  to  let  his 
passion  out  ever  so  little. 

From  twelve  years  old  to  sixteen  he  lived  a  dedicated 
life,  with  one  great  object  before  him.  He  worked 
hard  on  the  farm  with  the  strength  and  determination 
of  a  boy  much  older,  and  when  little  snatches  of  leisure 
gave  him  opportunity  he  went  to  school.  But  always, 
in  all  his  occupations,  one  great  purpose  was  before 
him,  and  that  purpose  was  the  carrying  out  of  the 
promise  given  his  father.  Sixteen,  he  set  himself  as 
the  age  at  which  he  would  be  old  enough  to  face  Kip 
Ryerson,  and  his  childish  thoughts  of  his  future  always 
stopped  short  at  that  age,  as  at  a  blank  wall;  beyond 
that  time  he  never  thought  or  planned.  This  feeling, 
as  though  his  life  came  to  an  end  then,  might  have  had, 
and  perhaps  would  have  had  on  many  boys,  a  paralyzing 
effect.  Fortunately  for  David  the  pressing  need  of  the 
farm  work  for  very  daily  existence  was  constantly 
present  to  spur  him  to  activity,  and  when  there  chanced 
a  respite  from  that,  his  eager  mind  drove  him  to  school. 

77 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

To  some  boys,  too,  there  might  have  come  a  feeling 
of  resentment  against  his  father  that  he  should  have 
laid  his  own  selfish  revenge  upon  his  young  shoulders, 
but  this  thought  never  crossed  David's  mind.  He  had 
loved  his  father  passionately,  and  his  devotion  held  no 
hint  of  the  possibility  of  the  man's  wrong-doing. 
Moreover,  he  and  his  father  were  cast  along  strangely 
similar  lines,  so  that  what  the  man  did  was  almost  always 
instinctively  what  the  boy  would  have  done  also.  Nor 
was  there  ever  in  David's  mind  a  desire  to  evade  his 
promise.  When  he  had  given  his  oath  to  his  father 
he  had  given  it  in  that  moment  with  his  very  soul; 
and  his  father's  death  had  clinched  it. 

When  he  came  sixteen,  in  the  hazy  weather  of  No 
vember,  touched  by  a  certain  chill  of  winter,  he  rose 
very  early  on  the  morning  of  his  birthday,  and  pack 
ing  himself  some  cold  store  of  food  and  leaving  a 
slip  of  paper  for  his  mother,  to  say  he  had  gone 
hunting  and  would  not  be  back  until  the  next  day, 
he  took  his  father's  old  rifle  down  from  its  rack  on 
the  big  stone  chimney,  and  crept  out  of  the  house 
long  before  it  was  light,  or  any  one  awake  to  be  aware 
of  his  departure. 

The  first  grey  streaks  of  dawn  found  him  almost  at 
the  Maple  Spring.  To  pass  the  Maple  Spring  was  one 
way  to  go  to  Rattle  Snake  Run.  There  was  another 
which  was  slightly  shorter,  but  on  that  morning  David 
chose  to  go  by  way  of  the  spring. 

When  he  reached  the  lonely  little  hollow  lying  so 
breathlessly  in  the  still  woods  of  early  dawn,  he  crossed 

78 


ROBERT  REDDIN  PLANTS  HIS  CORN 

over  to  the  log  on  which  he  and  his  father  had  sat 
together  on  that  hunting  morning  four  years  before, 
and  in  the  dull  grey  light,  through  which  the  trees  and 
low  bushes  showed  faint  and  cold,  he  dropped  down 
on  his  knees  and  took  off  his  hat. 

"Pappy!"  he  whispered,  "I  promised  yer,  an'  I'm 
goin'  now.  I  promised  yer  an'  I  ain't  never  forgot, 
Pappy." 

For  a  moment  longer  he  knelt  out  there  in  the  mys 
terious  dip  in  the  mountain  side,  where  it  seemed  to 
him  were  only  his  father  and  himself  of  all  the  world. 
Then  he  rose  and  went  over  to  the  spring,  and  again 
the  dried  leaves  crashed  under  his  feet,  and  when  he 
flung  himself  down  at  its  edge  to  drink  he  had  a  strange 
feeling  that  the  four  intervening  years  had  dropped 
from  him,  and  that  he  was  again  but  twelve  years  old, 
with  his  father  sitting  back  there  on  the  log,  his  eyes 
away  on  the  distant  mountains  and  his  thoughts  on 
Kip  Ryerson;  and  as  he  put  his  lips  to  the  water  he 
seemed  almost  to  hear  the  faint  far-away  cry  of  the 
dogs  on  the  opposite  ridge,  and  again  to  feel  that  sudden 
apprehension  of  something  appalling  about  to  happen. 
A  curious  sensation  stole  upon  him  as  though  there 
were  no  past  or  future,  both  being  lost  in  one  vast 
overwhelming  present;  for  it  was  all  infinitely  strange 
and  uncanny  in  the  uncertain  light,  and  the  still  lone 
liness  of  the  woods. 

But  in  a  moment  he  laid  stern  hold  upon  himself, 
and  rising,  stole  out  of  the  hollow  and  took  his  way 
along  the  path  in  the  direction  of  the  Rattle  Snake  Run. 

79 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

He  walked  with  the  mountaineer's  swinging  stride, 
which  carried  him  well  over  the  ground,  and  he  was 
already  some  distance  on  his  journey  before  the  sun 
came  out  in  feeble  rays  that  glinted  faintly  on  the 
metal  of  his  rifle,  and  cast  a  long,  thin  shadow  of 
himself  on  the  golden  leaves.  And  as  he  went  he  had 
an  ever-present  feeling  that  this  was  his  last  day  of 
life.  His  ideas  of  the  law  were  hazy,  and  he  did  not 
know  what  would  become  of  him  after  he  had  accom 
plished  his  intention,  but  imprisonment  either  in  jail 
or  reform  school  was  to  him  as  much  death  as  actual 
hanging.  Of  his  possible  escape  he  thought  little,  and 
in  fact  he  had  made,  strangely  enough,  no  plans  for  it. 
He  had  a  curiously  detached  feeling  about  himself, 
and  his  chief  concern  was  simply  the  fulfilling  of  his 
promise.  That  was  the  great  thing,  and  probably  he 
would  know  at  the  time  how  to  act  in  the  face  of  the 
events  which  followed. 

It  was  a  thirty-mile  tramp  to  the  Rattle  Snake  Run, 
and  noon  found  the  boy  with  still  a  weary  distance 
before  him.  He  stopped  by  a  little  brook,  and  drank 
deep,  and  ate  some  of  his  store  of  food;  afterwards  he 
rested  for  a  time,  and  then  looking  carefully  to  the 
loading  of  his  rifle  took  up  his  steady,  swinging  gait 
once  more. 

Occasionally  he  stopped  to  ask  his  way  of  people  at 
work  on  the  different  small  farms  which  he  passed; 
and  once  or  twice  the  road  led  him  by  small  log  school- 
houses,  from  the  windows  of  which  child  faces  watched 
him  eagerly,  glad  of  any  outside  diversion  from  the 

80 


ROBERT  REDDIN  PLANTS  HIS   CORN 

monotony  of  study  within.  But  for  the  most  part  his 
road  was  a  lonely  one,  and  sometimes  for  miles  it  lay 
through  the  mountains,  where  he  met  no  one,  and 
travelled  only  with  his  own  thoughts  for  company. 
Once  a  strange  cur  attached  itself  to  him  for  a  short 
distance,  and  created  a  diversion  by  its  wild  and 
excited  excursions  into  the  undergrowth.  But  soon  a 
startled  rabbit  led  it  with  bounds  and  squeaks  of 
delight  far  out  of  David's  pathway,  and  again  the  boy 
went  on  alone. 

About  four  in  the  afternoon,  the  path,  which  for 
some  time  had  lain  between  steep  and  rock-slabbed 
mountains,  opened  out  slightly  into  a  long,  gentle  slope 
downward,  and  David  guessed  he  was  come  to  the 
head  of  Rattle  Snake  Run.  Keeping  on  a  little  further, 
he  presently  espied  a  desolate-looking  farm  with  a 
small  grey  cabin  cocked  on  a  grassy  hillside  in  the 
middle  of  it. 

He  left  the  road  and  struck  a  narrow  beaten  path  across 
a  dried-up  stream,  which  presently  led  him  to  the  house. 
In  the  yard  a  shiftless-looking  man  was  at  work  on  a 
chicken-coop,  while  three  unkempt  women,  two  with 
babies  in  their  arms,  watched  him  with  dull  interest. 
As  David  approached,  the  dogs  set  up  an  excited 
barking  and  the  man  stopped  his  hammering  and  turned 
around.  At  sight  of  David  he  jerked  his  head  in 
salutation  but  did  not  speak. 

"Howdy,"  said  David,  "kin  you  tell  me  where 
erbouts  in  this  Draft  I  would  be  likely  ter  find  Kip 
Ryerson?  I  come  over  ter  see  him." 

81 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

The  man  regarded  him  a  moment  longer  in  silence, 
then  he  said  slowly: 

"You'll  hev  ter  travel  er  right  smart  farther  than 
this  Draft  ef  yer  want  ter  find  Kip  Ryerson." 

"How's  that?"  said  David.  I  thought  he  lived  over 
in  here." 

"He  don't  live  nowhere  no  mo',"  said  the  man, 
expectorating  with  deliberation,  and  turning  back  to 
his  work.  "He  went  out  West  two  year  ergo,  an' 
word  come  las'  summer  that  he  got  kilt  in  er  rail 
road  rick.  Where  mought  you  be  from?"  he  in 
quired,  turning  around  again  with  some  show  of 
interest. 

"I  come  from  over  in  Jumpin'  Creek,"  David 
answered  dully.  He  was  stunned  by  the  suddenness 
with  which  the  possibility  of  carrying  out  his  promise 
had  been  swept  away  from  him. 

"Ah-aa,"  said  the  man,  "Kip  Ryerson  was  over  in 
ther  fer  er  spell.  We  heerd  he'd  shot  er  feller  ther  — 
what  was  his  name?" 

"Alderson  Cree,"  said  David. 

"And  what  mought  your  name  be,  stranger?"  the 
man  persisted. 

"David  Cree,"  the  boy  answered  simply. 

At  his  words  the  man  looked  at  him  quickly  and  at 
his  rifle. 

"An'  you  come  over  huntin'  fer  Kip  Ryerson?"  he 
said.  "Lord!" 

The  tone  roused  David  and  brought  him  back 
somewhat  to  his  surroundings,  and  with  a  muttered, 

82 


ROBERT  REDDIN  PLANTS  HIS  CORN 

"Well,  reckon  I  must  be  travelling,"  he  left  the  yard, 
and  struck  into  the  road  again,  turning  mechanically 
back  over  the  way  he  had  come. 

For  a  couple  of  miles  he  walked  in  a  sort  of  dream, 
bewildered  by  the  abruptness  with  which  his  whole 
outlook  had  been  changed.  Then  he  collected  himself 
somewhat,  and  taking  out  his  supply  of  food  he  ate  a 
few  biscuits  as  he  walked  along  debating  where  he 
should  spend  the  night.  He  remembered  having  passed 
two  dilapidated  haystacks  in  one  of  the  small  fields 
at  the  head  of  the  valley,  and  in  them  he  decided  to 
take  shelter  until  the  morning,  for  somehow  he  desired 
to  be  alone,  and  shrank  from  asking  to  be  taken  in  at 
any  of  the  cabins  he  had  passed.  In  a  short  time, 
walking  steadily  up  the  valley,  he  came  again  to  the 
haystacks,  as  the  November  night  was  closing  down 
cold  and  still;  wearily  he  clambered  over  the  fence 
into  the  field,  and  pausing  a  moment  shot  the  load 
from  his  rifle,  with  a  curious  feeling,  as  the  echoes 
went  rattling  away  among  the  mountains,  that  with 
the  action  a  door  had  slammed  suddenly  between  his 
past  and  his  present.  Then  he  burrowed  a  hole  deep 
into  the  heart  of  one  of  the  musty  little  stacks  and 
crept  in  feet  foremost,  dragging  the  rifle  after  him  out 
of  the  evening's  damp.  Twisting  and  turning,  he 
made  himself  comfortable,  and  presently  dropped  his 
head  upon  one  arm  and  lay  still,  and  with  his  stillness 
a  sense  of  his  utter  weariness  swept  over  him.  He 
was  physically  tired  from  his  long  tramp,  but  that  was 
nothing  to  his  mental  prostration.  He  had  not  realized 

83 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

what  the  strain  of  the  day  had  been  to  him,  but  now, 
as  mind  and  body  relaxed,  he  felt  as  though  the  strain 
not  only  of  that  overwrought  day,  but  of  the  four 
years  since  his  promise,  as  well,  came  upon  him  all  at 
once  and  engulfed  him  in  an  abyss  of  absolute  exhaus 
tion.  For  only  a  short  time,  however,  he  lay  conscious 
of  his  fatigue,  then  slowly  his  mind  became  detached, 
and  presently  he  drifted  away  into  the  soft  blackness 
of  deep  sleep. 

In  the  morning,  when  he  awoke,  he  was  stiff  and 
cramped  from  his  position,  and  his  mind  was  still 
languid,  but  there  was  a  refreshing  vigour  and  glory  in 
the  air,  and  he  dimly  realized  that  his  life  was  opening 
out  before  him,  and  was,  as  it  were,  given  to  him  anew; 
his  plans  and  forward  thoughts  need  no  longer  end 
now  with  his  sixteenth  year. 

He  had  tried  faithfully  to  fulfil  his  oath,  and  the 
power  to  do  so  had  been  snatched  from  him,  and  he 
might  now  stretch  forth  his  hands  to  take  fearlessly 
the  newness  of  life  which  had  come  to  him. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  he  reached  home.  His  mother 
was  seated  before  the  fire,  and  turned  expectantly 
toward  him  at  his  entrance.  Without  greeting  he 
stepped  over  to  the  mantelpiece  and  laid  his  father's 
rifle  back  upon  its  rack. 

"Kip  Ryerson's  dead,"  he  said  quietly.  His  mother 
leaped  to  her  feet  and  clutched  his  arm,  looking  into 
his  face. 

"No,"  he  said,  answering  her  look,  for  she  had  not 
spoken.  "I  ain't  done  hit.  I  went  over  ter  do  hit 


ROBERT  REDDIN  PLANTS  HIS  CORN 

like  I  promised,  but  he  went  West  and  got  kilt  last 
summer  in  er  railroad  rick." 

Slowly  his  mother's  hands  fell  from  his  arm  and  she 
sank  down  again  into  her  chair,  but  she  made  no 
comment  on  either  his  expedition  or  the  news  with 
which  he  had  returned. 

In  the  face  of  this  frozen  woman,  that  Judith  Cree 
had  become,  it  required  an  effort  on  David's  part  to 
call  to  mind  what  she  had  been  in  the  days  before  his 
father's  death;  and  the  younger  children  knew  her 
only  as  a  pillar  of  strength  and  determination  on  whom 
they  might  entirely  rely,  but  from  whom  all  lightness 
and  show  of  tenderness  had  vanished.  And  David 
knew  that  every  struggle  and  burden  of  life  that  came 
upon  them  in  the  years  after  Alderson's  death  his 
mother  laid  to  Kip  Ryerson's  door  with  a  bitter  accum 
ulation  of  hate  —  though  his  name  or  that  of  her 
husband  never  crossed  her  lips. 

And  the  years  had  been  hard,  and  at  times  almost 
past  endurance,  but  thanks  to  Judith's  indomitable 
will  and  David's  energy  they  had  managed  always  to 
pull  through  somehow,  to  the  constant  surprise  of  all 
the  Crees  and  Leisters;  and  now  were  come  to  easy 
years,  with  David  twenty-two,  and  the  other  boys 
almost  grown  and  able  to  manage  the  farm  while 
David  worked  in  the  log  camps. 

In  the  years  that  followed  his  sixteenth,  David  shook 
off  much  of  the  sombreness  which  the  shock  of  his 
father's  death  had  laid  upon  him,  and  being  now  able 
to  look  into  the  future,  he  found  life  and  its  possibilities 

85 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

very  pleasant;  and  at  twenty-one  or  so,  looking  about 
him,  he  found  that  for  him  Mary  Reddin  was  growing 
up  to  be  quite  the  most  attractive  possibility  which  his 
life  held. 

At  dinner  time,  in  the  corn-field  that  May  morning, 
Robert  Reddin  looked  back  with  satisfaction  over  more 
than  half  of  his  brown  field  in  which  the  secret  treasure 
of  golden  grains  and  white  beans  were  safely  hidden; 
and  when  the  soft  grey-blue  note  of  the  dinner  horn 
came  pleasantly  across  from  the  house,  he  gave  quite 
a  jovial  halloo  in  response,  and  shouted  to  his  gang  of 
planters  to  knock  off. 

Bobbie,  the  youngest  Reddin,  looked  into  the  depths 
of  his  bean  pail  with  a  long-drawn  sigh  of  satisfaction 
and  self-congratulation.  It  had  been  filled  three  times, 
and  for  the  fourth  time  the  beans  were  beginning  to 
look  sparse  in  the  bottom,  with  the  black  tin  of  the  pail 
showing  between  their  fat,  white  sides ;  and  the  youngest 
Reddin  felt  that  he  had  served  a  faithful  apprenticeship 
in  beans,  and  might  safely  hope  for  a  glorious  promo 
tion  to  corn  in  the  near  future.  Unfortunately,  he 
delayed  too  long  over  the  sweets  of  self-congratulation 
and  the  dear  thought  of  future  greatness,  for  when  he 
took  his  tow-coloured  head  out  of  the  bean  pail  he 
sawr  with  a  pang  of  dismay  that  already  the  three 
next  older  Reddins  had  pre-empted  the  plough  horses, 
and  with  clanking  harness  and  flying  elbows  were 
plunging  gaily  across  the  fields  toward  home  and 
dinner.  At  the  sight,  with  piercing  howls,  he  of  the 
future  greatness  flung  himself  over  the  furrows  in  mad 

86 


ROBERT  REDDIN  PLANTS  HIS   CORN 

pursuit ;  albeit  his  bare  feet  flashed  somewhat  timorously 
over  the  hidden  stones,  for  they  had  not  long  been 
turned  out  of  their  protection  of  shoes  and  stockings, 
and  their  tender  whiteness  bore  little  resemblance  to 
the  brown  and  brier-scratched  pair  which  had  gone 
into  winter  retirement  the  previous  October. 

It  is  a  hard  world,  and  the  bitterness  of  it  came 
home  that  morning  to  the  youngest  Reddin;  and  with 
what  breath  he  could  spare  from  running  he  complained 
to  high  heaven  of  the  wickedness  of  mankind  in  general 
and  of  the  three  next  older  Reddins  in  particular. 
High  heaven  smiled  sweetly  down  upon  his  lamentations 
and  lost  no  whit  of  its  gay  serenity;  and  I  am  inclined 
to  think  that  in  all  probability  it  was  not  the  first  time 
it  had  been  called  upon  to  notice  the  perfidy  of 
mankind.  But  if  heaven  turned  a  deaf  ear,  Mary, 
who  was  a  nearer  providence,  strolling  lightly  across 
the  field  with  David,  heard  the  sounds  of  woe  and 
turned.  And  David,  drawing  on  his  own  young 
experiences,  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance,  and 
with  a  quick  movement  laid  hold  upon  one  of  the 
careering  horses  and  brought  its  reluctant  rider  to  a 
standstill. 

"Now  ain't  you  'shamed  ter  run  erway  from  er 
little  feller  like  that?"  Mary  said  severely  to  the  giggling 
rider. 

"Come  on,  honey,"  she  called  to  the  injured  one, 
"an'  I'll  put  yer  up." 

The  youngest  Reddin  arrived,  red-faced  and  out  of 
breath,  but  keenly  alive  to  his  wrongs. 

87 


THE  SOWING   OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

"They'd  oughtn't  ter  treat  me  that  erway,  ought 
they,  Mary?"  he  appealed. 

"That  they  oughtn't,"  she  answered,  consolingly, 
bending  over  him  sweetly,  though  at  the  back  of  her 
eyes  there  was  a  spark  of  laughter. 

But  Bobbie  failed  to  catch  the  laughter,  and  satisfied 
that  his  cause  was  championed  he  cast  a  triumphant 
look  at  his  brother,  his  face  already  beginning  to  clear. 
And  when  David  swung  him  up  to  a  place  on  the  back 
of  the  much  enduring  horse,  he  curled  his  toes  joyously, 
and  drawing  a  quivering  breath  or  two  burst  into 
a  sunshine  of  smiles,  once  more  well  pleased  with  the 
world;  though  it  must  be  admitted  he  laid  hold  upon 
his  brother  with  somewhat  ungentle  hands,  accompa 
nied  by  a  pinch  or  two  and  an  excursionary  finger  up 
and  down  the  ribs,  which  occasioned  howls  and  squirms 
from  his  victim,  and  cries  of  "Aw,  quit  now."  But  in 
the  face  of  what  had  happened,  and  when  only  one 
thickness  of  cotton  shirt  lies  between  revengeful  fingers 
and  the  bare  skin,  not  to  tickle  or  pinch  was  more 
than  could  be  expected  of  poor  frail  human  nature. 

In  the  wake  of  the  riders,  David  and  Mary  went 
on  their  way  again  across  the  field.  Mary  had 
pushed  her  pinky  sunbonnet  with  its  white  ruffles 
back  off  her  head,  leaving  it  to  hang  from  her  neck  by 
its  strings.  For  sunbonnets  are  the  creations  of  the 
middle-aged,  who  find  nothing  particularly  interesting 
outside  of  themselves,  and  are  to  the  young,  who  care 
to  see  and  hear,  the  very  invention  of  the  evil  one. 
Therefore,  now  that  there  were  other  things  to  see 

88 


ROBERT  REDDIN  PLANTS  HIS  CORN 

besides  the  long  brown  furrow  studded  with  yellow 
corn  grains,  Mary  thrust  her  sweet  face  out  of  her 
sunbonnet's  gloom,  daring  the  sun  and  wind  to  do 
their  worst;  feeling,  as  she  emerged,  as  though  she  had 
suddenly  entered  a  new  world  of  light  and  vivacity, 
like  a  butterfly  bursting  from  its  chrysalis. 

Mary  was  the  acknowledged  beauty  of  the  Draft. 
In  the  words  of  Joe  Snyder,  Mary  Reddin  "was  jest 
that  pretty  hit  kinder  hurt  yer  eyes  ter  look  at  her"; 
and  he  voiced  the  sentiment  of  most  of  the  young 
fellows  of  the  Draft.  For  there  was,  in  truth,  some 
thing  about  the  purity  and  sparkle  of  the  girl's  face 
that  was  almost  dazzling. 

Her  whole  physical  makeup  was  slender,  though 
she  was  tall,  and  strong,  too,  with  a  delicate  supple 
strength  that  adapted  itself  easily  enough  to  all  her 
daily  tasks.  Her  hair  was  a  misty  yellow,  and  swept 
back  from  her  forehead  in  little  curls  and  arches,  as 
though  each  strand  half  turned  to  catch  another  glimpse 
over  its  shoulder  of  the  beauty  of  her  face.  Her  eyes, 
strangely  enough  in  that  fair  setting,  were  very  dark, 
and  usually  they  flashed  with  an  illusive  humorous 
light,  matched  by  the  curve  of  her  mouth;  but  there 
were  times,  too,  when  they  took  on  a  mysterious 
softness,  and  then,  as  well,  the  mouth  matched  them 
in  tenderness,  and  at  these  times  Mary  Reddin  was 
irresistible. 

Looking  at  her  beside  him  that  heavenly  May  day, 
David,  who  had  not  seen  her  for  six  long  months,  felt 
his  heart  leap  up  within  him,  and  with  a  sudden  surge 

89 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

of  tenderness  he  longed  —  but  there !  What  under  the 
sun  was  the  use  of  longing  for  anything,  with  a 
younger  sister  all  eyes,  and  an  older  brother  all 
facetiousness,  and  a  father,  trailing  over  the  field  be 
side  them,  and  making  silly,  trivial  remarks  about 
the  weather,  and  who  had  their  corn  in  and  who 
hadn't?  In  the  face  of  so  many  spectators  David 
had  to  content  himself  with  helping  Mary  carefully 
across  the  little  streams  and  over  all  the  fences.  As 
he  jumped  her  across  the  last  fence,  and  she  came  to 
the  ground  with  airy  grace,  Mary,  who  daily  climbed 
these  same  fences  and  skipped  across  these  streams 
unaided,  turned  to  him  with  mischief  in  her  eyes. 

"I  certainly  am  erbliged  ter  yer,  David,"  she  said 
demurely.  "I  dunno's  I'd  ever  er  got  home  without 
yer  help." 

At  her  words  Jack  Reddin  and  the  younger  sister 
tittered,  and  flushing  hotly  David  turned  a  quick  look 
on  her,  but  in  the  depths  of  her  eyes  he  read  a  tender 
ness  beneath  the  mockery  which  the  others  failed  to 
see,  and  which  somehow  for  him  took  all  the  sting  out 
of  her  words. 

"Aw  Mary,"  he  said  deprecatingly;  and  then  added 
in  a  whisper,  "I'm  lookin'  fer  ther  time  when  I'll  be 
at  hand  ter  help  yer  over  all  ther  hard  places." 

But  Mary  was  in  a  provoking  mood. 

"What  was  hit  yer  said?"  she  asked,  with  tanta 
lizing  politeness.  "I  didn't  quite  ketch  hit.  Say  hit 
ter  Jack,  my  sunbonnet  ruffles  tickles  my  years  so's 
I  can't  hear  nothin'  hardly." 

90 


ROBERT  REDDIN  PLANTS  HIS  CORN 

"Never  mind,"  said  David  with  a  meaning  that 
silenced  her;  "I'll  wait  an'  say  hit  ergin  ter  yer  when 
I  kin  say  hit  loud  ernough  ter  make  yer  hear  me  sure 
'nough." 

As  Mary  stepped  on  to  the  little  porch  of  the  Reddins' 
house,  she  paused  a  moment  before  entering  to  pat  the 
old  hound  that  lay  contentedly  stretched  in  the  sun 
light.  He  thumped  his  tail  heavily  against  the  boards 
and  smiled  idiotically  up  at  her  in  response,  and 
having  assured  him  of  her  good-will,  she  passed  on 
into  the  house  with  David  beside  her.  At  her  entrance 
the  baby,  who  was  seated  upon  a  quilt  on  the  floor, 
and  surrounded  by  a  miscellaneous  collection  of  play 
things,  among  which  a  small  hammer  and  an  old  cow 
bell  ran  a  neck-and-neck  race  for  the  place  of  favourite, 
set  up  a  howl  and  waved  his  fat  arms  to  be  taken  up. 
Mrs.  Reddin,  warm  but  smiling,  came  in  from  the 
kitchen  and  shook  hands  with  David. 

"I'm  mighty  glad  ter  see  yer  back,  Dave,"  she  said, 
cordially,  "yer  bin  well?" 

David  assured  her  that  he  had. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  ter  hear  hit,"  she  returned.  "I 
heerd  ther  was  er  heap  er  sickness  in  camp  this  year. 
Ain't  hit  awful  warm?"  she  went  on,  gasping  slightly 
with  the  remembrance  of  her  steaming  kitchen.  She 
was  a  large,  fair  woman  with  a  serene  countenance 
and  the  remains  of  a  good  deal  of  beauty.  From  her 
Mary  inherited  her  regular  features,  but  the  girl's  face 
was  touched  with  an  individuality  and  poetry  lacking 
in  the  older  woman's;  or  perhaps  her  face  had  once 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

had  it,  and  the  care  of  a  husband  and  eleven  children, 
to  say  nothing  of  every  year's  crop  of  chickens,  and 
abandoned  lambs,  had  transformed  the  poetry  into  a 
general  large-hearted  motherliness  —  on  the  whole  a 
very  good  middle-aged  substitute  for  poetry. 

"I  jest  wished  you'd  take  that  young  un  over  ter 
ther  corn-field  an'  keep  him  there,  he's  pretty  nigh  run 
me  distracted  this  mawnin',"  she  said  to  Mary  as  the 
latter  picked  the  baby  up  from  the  floor. 

"What  makes  hit  so  bad?"  Mary  inquired  of  the 
baby  with  pretended  severity.  But  the  baby,  undis 
turbed  by  its  reputation  for  wickedness,  smiled  serenely 
in  a  large  and  comprehensive  manner  in  which  a  few 
newly  arrived  teeth  figured  prominently. 

"Why,  hit's  got  another  tooth,"  Mary  exclaimed, 
rubbing  a  slender,  inquiring  finger  along  the  expansive 
gums.  Be  it  known  that  all  the  babies  of  the  Draft 
are  "it,"  irrespective  of  name  or  sex,  until  they  are 
dispossessed  of  the  title  by  the  arrival  of  another  sister 
or  brother,  upon  which  they  are  promoted  to  the  dignity 
of  their  own  names  which  have  been  awaiting  them; 
while  the  new  arrival,  slipping  into  the  promoted  one's 
rights  and  privileges,  not  to  mention  certain  of  its 
discarded  clothes,  begins  its  own  lordly  reign  of  "it." 

"See  me  chop,"  a  small  voice  made  itself  energeti 
cally  heard  at  Mary's  feet,  and  a  young  person,  still  in 
dresses,  and  but  shortly  dispossessed  of  the  baby  title, 
came  down  with  gusto  upon  a  small  stick  of  wood, 
with  a  long-handled  hatchet,  perilously  near  his  own 
bare  foot.  His  mother  regarded  him  calmly. 

92 


ROBERT  REDDIN  PLANTS  HIS   CORN 

"You  cut  yer  toe  off,"  she  remarked  mildly,  explain 
ing  the  situation  to  him.  But  Mary,  with  a  fine  show 
of  discipline,  swooped  down  and  deprived  him  of  the 
hatchet,  making  at  the  same  time  such  an  enchantingly 
grotesque  face,  and  giving  him  a  series  of  such  irre 
sistible  pokes  in  the  ribs,  that  he  immediately  collapsed 
upon  the  floor  limp  with  delight,  and  it  was  several 
minutes  before  he  realized  that  she  had  robbed  him 
of  his  dearest  possession ;  and  fortunately,  at  the  moment 
of  his  discovery,  his  thoughts  were  happily  diverted  by 
the  arrival  of  his  father  and  older  brother  from  the 
stable  where  they  had  gone  to  feed  the  horses  —  upon 
which  every  one  tramped  hungrily  out  to  dinner. 

At  dinner  Mary  and  her  mother  did  not  sit  down 
with  the  others,  but  busied  themselves  waiting  upon 
the  rest,  and  as  David  watched  Mary's  slender  figure 
moving  about  the  table  serving  her  small  brothers,  in 
his  mind's  eyes  all  the  brothers  and  sisters,  and  even 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Reddin,  were  suddenly  swept  away,  and 
at  the  table  he  and  Mary  sat,  facing  each  other  alone, 
with  no  one  else  in  all  the  world  to  bother  about. 

"  An'  how  was  ther  drive  this  spring  ?  "  Robert  Reddin 
asked,  taking  a  deep  draught  of  coffee,  and  settling  to 
minute  inquiries  of  timber,  river,  ark,  and  hands;  and 
with  an  inward  sigh  David  saw  his  dream-table  disap 
pear  and  resigned  himself  to  the  patient  answering  of 
innumerable  questions. 


93 


CHAPTER   VI 

A  YOUNG  MAN'S  FANCY 

IT  was  hard  for  David  Cree  to  turn  his  mind  from 
the  vision  of  that  delightful  dream-table,  where  only 
himself  and  Mary  Reddin  sat,  and  give  his  attention  to 
her  father's  endless  questions;  all  the  harder,  because 
when  his  mind  went  wandering  off  along  those  prim 
rose  paths  of  romance  his  heart  kept  it  joyful 
company,  whereas,  when  he  turned  it  to  the  matter 
of  log  drives,  that  always  unaccountable  member  sud 
denly  refused  to  follow  there,  but  stayed  instead 
like  a  runaway  child,  playing  by  itself  among  the 
primroses,  and  giving  little  absurd  bounds  of  pure 
delight  every  time  Mary's  voice  or  her  low  ripple  of 
laughter  cut  across  Robert  Reddin's  conversation. 
Nevertheless,  David  answered  the  questions  faithfully, 
and  late  in  the  afternoon  of  that  planting  day  he  had 
his  reward. 

It  was  almost  six  o'clock  before  the  last  yellow  corn 
grains  were  laid  snugly  in  their  furrows,  and  the  coverlet 
of  brown  earth  rippled  over  them,  to  lie  so  lightly  upon 
them,  and,  with  the  sun  and  quickening  spring  rains, 
to  whisper  to  the  little  seeds  such  strange,  unbelievable 
prophecies  of  green  blade,  golden  dusted  tassels,  and 

94 


A  YOUNG  MAN'S  FANCY 

final  glad  fulfilment  of  the  ripe  ear.  Such  obviously 
strange  and  unbelievable  prophecies  that  more  than 
once,  in  the  days  that  followed,  the  little  grains  wished 
petulantly  that  the  warm  breath  of  the  earth,  and  the 
whisper  of  the  rains,  would  cease  tantalizing  them  with 
such  haunting  impossibilities,  and  let  them  lie  quiet  in 
the  ground  in  their  half-asleep  existence,  which  surely 
was  the  only  thing  that  corn  grains  had  ever  been 
intended  for.  But  that  mysterious  and  disturbing 
whisper  of  the  earth  and  rain  went  on  in  spite  of  their 
fretful  desire  to  be  let  alone;  and  finally,  just  to  escape 
a  little  further  from  the  rain's  teasing,  the  grains  shifted 
uneasily,  and  then  sent  forth  little  pale,  groping  rootlets 
to  burrow  away  deeper  into  the  dark.  But  with  the 
roots  that  sought  thus  to  escape  there  came  out,  too, 
tiny  buds  of  things  that  said,  "Perhaps  the  earth  and 
rain  spoke  true  after  all  —  perhaps,"  turning  it  over 
within  themselves  —  and  again  —  "perhaps."  And 
when  the  little  buds  went  as  far  as  to  admit  a  per 
haps,  it  was  not  many  days  before  a  green  army  of 
fairy  banners  leaped  into  the  sunshine  of  Robert  Red- 
din's  brown  field. 

But  before  that  wave  of  greenery  arrived,  a  good 
many  things  had  happened  in  the  Jumping  Creek 
Draft;  and  the  thing  which  happened  first  of  all  was 
that  Mrs.  Reddin's  spotted  heifer  pushed  down  the 
fence  at  the  edge  of  the  woods,  and  sought  to  run 
away  into  the  hollows  of  Drupe  Mountain,  prompted 
thereto  by  the  irresistible  spring  hunger  for  budding 
juicy  things.  Mary  was  the  first  to  see  her  manoeuvre 

95 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

as  she  stood  in  the  group  of  congratulatory  Reddins  at 
the  upper  end  of  the  finished  field. 

"There's  Spotty  tryin'  ter  break  erway  ergin,"  she 
exclaimed;  "ef  I  don't  git  her  turned  back  she'll  not 
come  in  'fore  momin'";  and  so  saying  she  sped  swiftly 
after  the  delinquent  heifer. 

"I'll  help  yer!"  David  cried,  and  without  a  moment's 
hesitation  raced  after  her  slender,  flying  figure ;  and  the 
further  away  from  the  general  assembly  of  the  Reddin 
family  that  Spotty  led  her  pursuers,  David  Cree  felt  in 
his  heart  the  better  would  he  be  pleased. 

Though  a  spring  day  in  the  Jumping  Creek  may 
have  been  breathlessly  hot  through  the  noon  hours, 
there  comes  always  with  the  falling  of  the  evening  a 
grateful  cool  wave  of  energy  that  puts  fresh  inspiration 
into  the  air  and  makes  one  feel,  even  with  a  long  day's 
work  at  the  back,  a  mad  desire  for  more  physical 
exertion. 

That  freshness  had  touched  the  air  now,  and  Mary 
ran  with  pink  cheeks  and  the  glad  joy  of  swift  motion 
in  her  eyes;  and  David,  a  half  minute  behind  her,  put 
forth  more  than  his  usual  energy  before  he  finally 
overtook  her. 

Mary  threw  him  a  laughing,  radiant  glance  over  her 
shoulder,  but  she  did  not  check  her  speed  until  the 
steep  rise  of  the  hill,  as  it  sprung  from  the  valley  up 
into  the  Drupe  Mountain,  forced  her  to  do  so,  out  of 
breath.  Here  she  dropped  to  a  walk,  but  it  was  not 
a  slow  one,  and,  "We  gotter  hurry  er  she'll  git  clean 
erway,"  she  panted  breathlessly  to  David.  "You  jest 

96 


A  YOUNG  MAN'S  FANCY 

wait  here,"  David  commanded,  as  they  came  to  the 
broken-down  fence.  "Yer  all  outer  breath  an'  I'll  git 
ther  ole  raskil  turned  'round  in  er  second";  and  so 
saying  he  plunged  into  the  waving  undergrowth,  and 
in  a  few  minutes,  accompanied  by  much  shouting  and 
trampling,  Spotty  broke  out  of  the  woods,  and  with 
many  awkward  and  defiant  gambols,  high-flung  hind 
legs,  and  stiffly  quirked  tail,  went  plunging  away  down 
the  hill  toward  the  stable  and  the  other  cattle,  who 
had  cautiously  awaited  the  result  of  her  manoeuvre 
before  attempting  it  themselves,  and  who  now,  on  her 
ignominious  return,  doubtless  congratulated  themselves 
mightily  upon  their  conservative  stay-at-home  attitude. 

David  came  back  in  triumph  to  the  fence  where 
Mary  waited.  From  where  they  stood  the  valley  lay 
below  them  in  the  slant  rays  of  afternoon  sunlight,  all 
golden  brown  with  upturned  earth,  save  where  the 
spring  wheat  and  pasture  lands  made  spots  of  mellowed 
green. 

Cheek  by  jowl  below  them  the  Reddin  and  Cree 
farms  lay  looking  at  each  other  across  the  county 
road;  and  in  the  air  was  that  heavenly  inspiration  of 
evening  coolness.  David  came  close  up  to  Mary 
Reddin. 

"I've  turned  yer  heifer  back  fer  yer,  an'  now  what 
are  yer  goin'  ter  do  fer  me?"  he  demanded  softly. 

Mary  looked  at  him  with  round  eyes  of  innocence. 

"O  Dave!"  she  said,  "I  certainly  am  erbliged  ter 
yer,  an'  I'm  goin'  ter  do  er  heap  fer  yer." 

"What  is  hit  yer  goin'  ter  do?"  he  persisted. 
97 


THE   SOWING   OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

Mary  swooped  away  from  him  with  a  quick,  butterfly 
movement,  and  caught  up  the  lower  rail  of  the  fence. 
"I'm  er  goin'  ter  let  yer  help  me  lay  up  this  fence," 
she  answered,  with  a  saucy  look  at  him,  and  an  en 
chanting  gurgle  of  irrepressible  laughter. 

David  laughed,  too,  in  spite  of  his  defeat;  and  joyous 
dancing  lights  flashed  in  his  dark  eyes,  answering  the 
witchery  of  her  own. 

"All  right,  Mistress  Mary,"  he  said;  "but  mind,  hit 
don't  take  very  long  ter  lay  up  er  fence,  an'  then 
there'll  hev  ter  be  ernother  settlin',"  he  added  with 
meaning. 

In  truth,  judging  from  the  way  in  which  he  fell  to 
work,  it  would  not  take  long,  and  Mary,  as  she  watched 
him,  felt  a  sudden  little  half  fearful  thrill  go  over  her. 

She  knew  very  well  that  David  loved  her,  and  had 
done  so  for  more  than  a  year;  but  in  all  that  time  she 
had  managed  by  her  quick  wit  to  hold  him  off,  so  that 
he  had  never  actually  wooed  her.  Why  she  thus 
fenced  with  him  Mary  hardly  knew  herself,  for  in  her 
own  heart  she  was  very  well  aware  that  she  loved  him. 
But  it  was  all  such  a  strange  new  feeling,  that  somehow 
it  prompted  her  always  to  put  up  quick,  defensive 
barriers  of  speech  whenever  they  were  alone  together. 

And  David  had  let  himself  be  held  off,  for  he  had 
had  nothing  to  offer  her.  But  now,  after  a  long  winter 
of  scrupulous  saving  in  camp,  things  were  different; 
and  watching  his  determined  face,  as  he  toiled  over 
the  fence,  Mary  realized  all  at  once  that  he  was  no 
longer  to  be  baffled,  and  with  the  realization  she  felt 

98 


A  YOUNG  MAN'S  FANCY 

herself  shaken  softly  like  a  spring  leaf  shivering  in  the 
April  winds. 

And  even  as  she  watched  him,  David  laid  the  top 
rail  upon  the  fence  and  turning  suddenly  caught  both 
her  hands  in  his. 

For  a  long  moment  he  looked  down  at  her  in  silence, 
and  Mary's  eyes  fell  before  his. 

"Mary,"  he  said  at  length,  softly,  "do  you  know 
why  I  come  outer  camp?" 

At  the  question  Mary's  old  quick  wit  rose  to  the 
defence,  and  though  she  knew  it  was  no  good  now,  she 
nevertheless  flung  out  a  laughing  retort. 

"Reckon  yer  come  out  'cause  everybody  else  did, 
and  it'd  be  kind  er  lonesome  out  there  in  the  mountains 
all  by  yerself,"  she  said. 

David  laughed  tenderly,  but  with  a  ring  of  exultation. 

"  No,  that  wa'n't  ther  reason,"  he  answered.  "  'Sides, 
everybody  didn't  come  out.  There's  er  cuttin'  crew 
up  in  ther  yit;  an'  I  could  er  stayed  with  them  ef  I'd 
er  wanted  ter.  But  I  had  er  reason  fer  comin'  out  an' 
you  know  what  hit  is." 

"  'Deed  ef  I  do,"  she  answered  quickly. 

"Then  I'll  hev  ter  tell  yer!"  David  cried,  with  a 
sudden  nearer  movement  toward  her. 

Mary  sprang  back,  and  tugged  to  get  her  hands 
free. 

"  I  ain't  got  no  time  ter  listen  ter  yer  —  that's  Mammy 
now,  calling  ther  cows,"  she  cried  breathlessly. 

But  David  held  her  fast.  "Yer'll  not  go  till  I  tell 
yer,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  passionate  voice,  and  all  at 

99 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

once  he  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  covered  her  face 
with  kisses. 

"Now  do  yer  know!"  he  cried,  panting.  "Now  do 
yer  know?"  Mary  struggled  in  his  embrace,  half 
frightened. 

"Oh,  let  me  go,  let  me  go,  David  Cree,"  she  cried. 

"Not  till  yer  say  yer  know  why  I  come  outer  camp," 
he  answered  hotly. 

"Oh,  I  do!  I  do!"  she  gasped  at  length,  lying  still  in 
his  arms  and  almost  sobbing. 

And  with  one  last  kiss  David  opened  his  arms  and 
let  her  go,  and  Mary  skimmed  down  the  hillside 
toward  home  like  a  frightened  bird. 

Yet,  when  she  reached  the  house  and  stepped  across 
the  porch,  the  frightened  look  had  left  her  face  and 
another  expression  was  there. 

David  stood  still,  leaning  against  the  fence,  and 
watched  her  dainty  figure  leap  down  the  hillside  and 
disappear  from  sight,  and  only  one  other  thing  in  all 
his  life  had  ever  so  moved  the  very  foundations  of  his 
soul  as  had  the  sudden  overpowering  rush  of  his  love, 
and  the  touch  of  Mary's  little  fluttering  figure,  that 
had  at  length  lain  still  in  his  arms  —  and  the  other 
thing  that  had  moved  him  had  not  been  love. 

Shaken  and  awed,  he  stood  looking  down  upon  the 
mellowed  landscape  below  him,  his  heart  leaping  in 
great  bounds  and  all  his  pulses  on  fire.  And  in  the 
face  of  his  own  strength  of  passion  he  paused  in 
wonderment  and  almost  in  fear.  That  he  could  hate 
deeply,  circumstances  had  shown  him.  But  what  the 

100 


A  YOUNG  MAN'S  FANCY 

power  of  love  was  he  had  not  guessed  until  that  mo 
ment.  His  was  not  a  subtle  nature,  nor  one  given  to 
inward  speculation,  but  in  that  moment  he  realized 
that  he  had  come  face  to  face  with  a  hitherto  unguessed 
flood  of  emotion  and  strength,  bursting  open,  as  it 
were,  the  doors  of  a  new  universe. 

He  turned  at  length  from  his  position  by  the  fence, 
and  coming  slowly  down  the  hill  skirted  the  Red- 
dins'  field  and  made  across  the  bottom  lands  toward 
his  own  home. 

As  he  swung  himself  over  the  last  fence  and  dropped 
into  the  county  road,  he  met  Ellen  Daw,  on  her  slow 
return  from  her  day  spent  at  the  grist  mill  at  Linden  — 
the  little  post-office  village  some  five  miles  from  the 
head  of  the  Jumping  Creek  Draft. 

In  the  light  of  his  great  knowledge  all  women 
seemed  to  David,  just  then,  beings  set  apart  and 
exalted,  sanctified  by  his  love  for  one.  Therefore, 
he  stopped  and  spoke  to  Ellen  with  extra  politeness, 
though  as  a  rule  the  girl's  wistful,  dark  visage,  with 
its  eager  look  —  as  though  she  searched  every  face 
anew,  with  a  fresh  upspringing  of  hope  for  a  thing 
that  she  had  somehow  missed  —  did  not  particularly 
attract  him. 

"Howdy,  Miss  Ellen,"  he  said,  putting  out  his  hand 
to  her  as  she  sat  above  him  on  her  old  horse,  her  bag 
of  milling  swung  at  the  back  of  her  saddle. 

With  a  quick  gesture  the  girl  pushed  her  rusty  black 
sunbonnet  off  her  head  that  she  might  see  the  better, 
and  then  dropped  her  work-hardened  hand  into  his 

101 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

outstretched  one  with  a  certain  shy  awkwardness;  while 
a  slow,  dark  colour  went  all  over  her  face. 

"Howdy,"  she  said,  briefly;  and  it  seemed  as  though 
it  was  hard  for  her  to  say  even  that. 

"How  you  bin  makin'  hit?"  David  persisted. 

"Oh,  jest  tolerble,"  she  answered. 

"How's  yer  Paw?"  he  inquired. 

"He's  so  crippled  up  with  ther  rheumatiz  this  spring 
that  he  ain't  able  ter  do  er  lick  er  work,"  she  answered, 
still  with  the  same  constrained  manner.  Then  she 
added  in  a  lower  tone,  as  though  to  herself,  "Hit  keeps 
me  right  hard  worked." 

A  sudden  realization  of  how  hard  worked  a  lonely 
girl  might  be  on  the  top  of  Drupe  Mountain,  with  two 
disabled  old  people  to  look  after,  flashed  over  David 
in  the  light  of  his  own  past  struggles,  and  he  answered 
her  low  words  warmly. 

"I  jest  bet  hit  is  hard,"  he  said,  a  touch  of  sympathy 
in  his  voice  that  brought  a  quick  mist  to  the  girl's 
eyes  and  a  tightening  to  her  throat.  She  fumbled  with 
her  reins  a  little  blindly. 

"Well,  reckon  I  must  be  travelling"  she  murmured, 
confusedly;  but  she  paused  a  moment  longer,  looking 
searchingly  down  into  his  face. 

"You  bin  well?"  she  inquired,  and  another  man 
might  have  noticed  a  certain  eagerness  that  underlay 
the  constraint  of  her  manner.  But  David  missed  the 
eagerness,  and  was  aware  only  of  the  constraint,  which 
threw  something  of  awkwardness  into  his  own  reply. 

"Oh,  yes,  well's  common,"  he  answered;  and  was 
102 


A  YOUNG  MAN'S  FANCY 

glad  that  with  that  she  again  gathered  up  her  reins, 
and  with  a  couple  of  jerks  got  her  horse  once  more 
started  in  its  shuffling,  uneven  gait. 

For  a  moment  David  watched  her  go  slowly  up  the 
road,  her  figure  in  its  forlornly  faded  calico  swaying 
slightly  from  side  to  side  as  the  old  mare  rolled  along, 
and  in  his  heart  he  was  conscious  of  a  vague  pity  for 
the  girl. 

But  directly  the  realization  of  his  own  wonderful 
new  happiness  swept  back  upon  him,  and  throwing 
his  head  up  he  poured  forth  a  soft,  sweet  whistle  of 
pure  ecstasy,  swinging  along  at  a  jubilant  pace  through 
the  delicate  perfumed  light  of  the  vanishing  day;  and 
Ellen  Daw  and  her  hardships  speedily  vanished  into 
the  background  of  his  mind. 

As  he  neared  home  his  little  sister  Ellie,  the  blue-eyed 
baby  of  ten  years  ago,  with  flying  hair  shining  about 
her  head  in  a  red-gold  haze  as  the  last  rays  of  sunlight 
touched  it,  came  racing  down  the  hill  to  meet  him. 

"O  Dave,  Dave!"  she  cried,  landing  in  his  out 
stretched  arms,  and  quite  breathless;  "I've  found  the 
ole  white  turkey's  nest!  She's  settin'  on  eight  eggs; 
an'  Mammy  ses  I  kin  hev  half  er  all  ther  turkeys  she 
raises  fer  findin'  ther  nest." 

"Well,  I  declar!"  cried  David,  with  proper  admira 
tion;  "ain't  you  er  smart  girl?"  And  stooping  he 
caught  her  up  and  set  her  lightly  on  his  shoulder,  and 
with  her  arm  'round  his  neck,  and  both  her  slender, 
bare  ankles  clasped  in  one  of  his  hands,  he  proceeded 
gaily  up  the  slope  to  the  house. 

103 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

This  little  sister  was  grown  into  an  airy  witch  of  a 
thing,  all  dancing  vivacity  and  gay  unconsciousness; 
with  little  elfish  turns  of  speech  and  gesture  which 
were  a  constant  source  of  wonder  and  fascination  to 
the  other  children  of  the  Draft. 

Slipping  from  David's  shoulder  at  the  house  she 
landed  upon  her  restless  bare  feet  like  a  bit  of  blown 
milkweed  down,  and  in  a  moment  was  off  to  the  barn 
on  some  other  eager  quest;  for  she  flitted  from  one 
delightful  pursuit  to  another,  like  a  swallow  swooping 
and  darting  through  grey  evening  skies,  now  in  this 
direction,  now  in  that. 

David  watched  her  go  with  a  smile,  for  she  was  the 
pet  of  all  her  brothers;  then  striking  once  more  into  his 
gay  whistle,  he  passed  through  the  main  room  of  the 
house  and  out  to  the  kitchen  lean-to  at  the  back,  where 
he  found  his  mother  busy  getting  supper. 

At  his  entrance  she  glanced  up  from  her  kneading- 
board,  in  greeting,  but  she  did  not  speak,  for  her  words 
now  were  always  few. 

Her  face  still  wore  the  expression  it  had  caught, 
when,  ten  years  ago  Alderson  Cree  had  been  brought 
home  from  his  last  hunt.  The  face  was  old  now, 
wrinkled  and  worn  by  the  past  hard  years,  but  the 
look  stayed  always  new,  with  a  freshness  of  horror,  as 
though  the  blow  had  fallen  but  the  day  before. 

Used  as  David  was  to  that  live  tragedy,  it  came  to 
him  that  afternoon,  in  the  face  of  his  new  happiness, 
with  a  reawakening  of  distress,  as  though  a  phantom 
out  of  the  grim  past  had  risen  suddenly  to  mock  him; 

104 


A  YOUNG  MAN'S  FANCY 

and  with  a  sense  that  the  sunlight  of  his  happiness  had 
been  suddenly  blighted  by  a  cloud,  he  caught  the  tin 
wash  basin  from  its  nail  on  the  wall,  and  turned  out 
to  the  well,  to  make  his  evening  ablutions,  with  a 
restless  feeling  almost  of  irritation  toward  his  mother. 


105 


CHAPTER   VII 

IN   THE   BACKWATERS   OF   LIFE 

WITH  the  remembrance  of  her  meeting  with  David 
Cree  still  warmly  fresh  in  her  mind,  Ellen  Daw  rode 
slowly  on  her  homeward  way,  following  the  main  road 
of  the  Draft,  as  it  meandered  through  the  ever  nar 
rowing  valley,  between  zig-zag  fence  rows,  burdened 
with  clouds  of  tender  green  leaf,  white  blossom  of 
thorn,  and  ethereal  pink  of  the  crab-apple.  The  road 
ran  between  the  small  farms  and  cleared  hillsides  of 
the  valley;  and  from  the  occasional  dooryards  neigh 
bours  called  greetings  to  her  as  they  went  about  their 
evening  chores;  and  every  now  and  then  she  met  some 
of  the  men  on  the  road  making  their  way  homeward, 
and  exchanged  a  constrained  "Howdy"  with  them,  or 
remark  upon  the  weather.  Half-way  up  the  Draft  she 
passed  the  schoolhouse,  a  little  square  building  of  grey 
logs  and  white  strips  of  chinking  and  daubing,  now,  in 
the  idleness  of  spring  and  oncoming  summer,  standing 
deserted  and  silent  on  its  grassy  knoll;  brooding,  per 
haps,  on  past  and  gone  sessions,  with  only  an  occasional 
Sunday  prayer-meeting,  or  preaching,  to  break  its 
peaceful  monotony.  Ellen  half  wondered  to  herself, 
as  she  passed  it,  whether  in  its  dreams  of  different 

1 06 


IN  THE  BACKWATERS  OF  LIFE 

children  whom  it  had  hovered,  it  ever  remembered  a 
shy  little  gipsy-like  child  from  off  Drupe  Mountain, 
who  for  three  winters  had  daily  trudged  the  weary 
miles  from  the  top  of  the  mountain  to  its  door;  and 
who  had  suffered  such  agonies  of  ridicule  at  the  hands 
of  the  other  children,  all  because  her  clothes  were 
shabbier  and  poorer  than  anyone's  else,  and  because 
she  sometimes  had  only  corn  bread  for  her  dinner. 
Ellen  hoped  the  schoolhouse  had  forgotten,  and  all 
the  scholars  as  well,  that  pitiful  little  figure  of  herself. 
She  could  never  forget  it;  but  she  could  not  bear  to 
think  that  others  still  remembered  her  forlorn,  un- 
mothered  childhood.  For  she  felt  always  an  aching 
pity  for  that  thin  little  wistful  child -self,  and  wished 
that  it  were  possible  now,  in  her  grown-up  capacity,  to 
take  the  phantom  of  herself  of  ten  years  ago  into  her 
empty  arms,  and  give  it  the  passionate  caresses  that  a 
mother  would  give  —  caresses  that  neither  she  nor  the 
child-self  had  ever  known;  only  some  warm  encom 
passing  affection  like  that,  she  felt,  would  ever  take 
the  sting  out  of  those  cruel  school  days. 

A  little  past  the  schoolhouse,  Kate  Sawyer,  milk 
ing  her  cow,  of  a  beautiful  Titian  red  colouring,  in  a 
fence  corner  of  the  road,  stopped  Ellen  with  a  request. 

"Ef  yer  see  my  ole  sow  up  erlong  ther  head  er  ther 
Draft,  wished  you'd  give  her  er  turn  back  this  erway. 
She  broke  loose  this  mornin'  an'  I'm  mighty  'fraid 
she'll  git  erway  out  inter  ther  mountains,"  she  said. 
"Soh  —  there!  —  back-er-leg!"  she  adjured  the  cow; 
and  presently  the  soft  purr  of  the  milk  frothing  into 

107 


THE   SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

the  bucket  went  on  as  before.  And  with  a  "Yes'm,  I 
will,"  Ellen,  eagerly  glad  of  any  opportunity  to  be 
neighbourly,  rode  on  her  way  again. 

The  sun  had  dropped  behind  the  Drupe  Range 
in  so  clear  a  spring  sky  of  turquoise,  shading  to 
yellow,  that  there  were  no  littlest  clouds  even,  to 
fling  out  banners  of  colour  at  its  departure;  the  moun 
tains  drew  in  steeper  and  closer  on  either  side  of 
the  track;  frogs  chorused  from  all  the  little  streams 
and  moist  places  in  the  fields,  and  the  day  seemed 
vanishing  in  long  drawn  breaths  of  fainter  and 
fainter  light;  and  in  all  the  world  only  God  knew 
what  a  lonesome  heart  Ellen  Daw  carried  with  her 
on  her  homeward  way  —  and  in  truth  on  all  her 
ways  through  the  world. 

A  short  distance  past  the  Ford  place,  which  was  the 
last  inhabited  house  in  the  Draft,  Ellen  overtook  Kate 
Sawyer's  delinquent  sow,  wallowing  with  luxurious 
abandonment  in  a  capacious  mud  hole,  and  with 
shouts  and  flourishes  of  her  maple  switch  got  the  fat 
old  lady  to  her  feet  and  started  her  grunting  and 
scuttling  down  the  road  toward  home  and  an  anxious 
mistress.  And  with  a  glow  of  satisfaction,  and  some 
thing  of  a  feeling  of  friendship  with  Kate  Sawyer,  at 
least,  Ellen  proceeded  on  her  way.  For  to  even  the 
lonesomest  is  given  the  privilege  of  doing  little  bits  of 
kindness  for  others,  which  gives  some  slight  feeling  of 
being  in  touch  with  the  rest  of  mankind.  To  one  who 
has  had  all  his  or  her  life  endless  store  of  friendship 
and  love,  this  might  seem  a  meagre  enough  taste  of 

1 08 


IN  THE  BACKWATERS   OF  LIFE 

good  fellowship;  but  to  one  who,  like  Ellen  Daw,  had 
known  real  loneliness,  it  was  unspeakably  better  than 
nothing,  and  was,  in  fact,  the  way  by  which  she  ob 
tained  most  of  her  feelings  of  companionship  with  her 
neighbours.  There  was  scarcely  a  person  in  all  the 
Jumping  Creek  Draft  who  had  not  at  one  time  or 
another  received  some  little  hidden  bit  of  help  from 
the  lonesome  dark  girl,  who  lived  such  a  dreary,  shut- 
away  life  on  the  mountain,  and  who  possessed  such  a 
meagre  portion  of  either  the  thoughts  or  hearts  of  the 
neighbours  whom  she  so  eagerly  sought  to  help  with 
her  little  secret  kindnesses. 

If  she  had  done  any  one  a  service  that  person  never 
knew  it,  for  she  concealed  the  fact  with  a  diffident 
reserve;  and  if  she  longed  with  her  very  heart  and 
soul  for  the  merry  companionship  of  the  young  people 
of  her  own  age,  or  even  for  the  quieter  but  no  less 
dear  friendliness  of  the  older  people,  no  one  ever 
guessed  that  either.  For,  born  on  the  top  of  a  lone 
some  mountain,  and  living  almost  from  the  day  of  her 
birth  a  solitary,  unloved  life,  the  girl  had  developed  a 
constrained  reserve  that  shut  her  away  from  all  human 
fellowship  more  effectually  than  even  the  inaccessibility 
of  the  mountain  itself. 

Though  she  saw  and  heard  and  felt  like  other  people, 
her  shyness  held  her  tongue  in  a  fatal  silence.  When 
people  spoke  to  her  gaily  or  pleasantly,  her  whole 
heart  leaped  toward  them  in  warm  response,  and  she 
would  have  given  worlds  to  answer  in  kind,  but  always 
the  blank  wall  of  her  reserve  and  self-consciousness  rose 

109 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

up  between,  and  her  responses  came  only  in  difficult 
sentences  or  monosyllables. 

"I  dunno  how  'tis,"  Kate  Sawyer  remarked  to  her 
neighbour  and  intimate,  Allie  Snyder,  "but  somehow 
every  time  I  see  Ellen  Daw,  from  off  Drupe  Mountain, 
seems  like  she's  more  froze  up  'an  ever.  I  try  ter  talk 
ter  her,  an'  give  her  er  pleasant  word,  but  she  jest  drops 
her  eyes  an'  says'No'm,'  er'Yes'm,' an' seems  like  she'd 
es  leave  I'd  take  er  stick  ter  her  es  speak  ter  her." 

"Well,  she  jest  freezes  me  right  up,"  Mrs.  Synder 
declared  with  large  frankness,  changing  Orin  Snyder's 
smallest  son  and  heir  from  one  hip  to  the  other,  and 
putting  up  a  frowzy  lock  with  her  disengaged  hand. 

"An'  I  can't  say  es  ther's  many  makes  me  feel  that 
erway,"  and  thereat  she  laughed  with  a  mountainous 
joviality  which  shook  her  all  over,  and  gave  to  the 
baby  a  foretaste  of  what  an  earthquake  might  be. 

"Don't  seem  like  none  er  ther  girls  er  ther  Draft 
takes  up  with  her  neither,"  Mrs.  Sawyer  went  on, 
tentatively. 

"That's  so,  they  don't,"  agreed  Mrs.  Snyder.  "I 
tried  ter  git  Lucy  ter  go  an'  set  by  her  when  she  comes 
down  ter  preachin',  but  she  says  Ellen's  so  currus  an' 
dumb,  an'  wears  such  funny  clothes,  don't  none  er  ther 
girls  want  ter  hev  nothin'  ter  do  with  her." 

"Well,  she  may  be  dumb  when  hit  comes  ter  talkin', 
but  tell  yer  one  thing,  she  kin  ever  more  lastingly  out- 
sing  anything  in  this  yere  Draft,"  the  other  declared. 
"An'  she  ain't  really  so  bad  lookin'  when  yer  come  ter 
study  her,  sure  'nough.  Ef  she  didn't  wear  such  currus 

no 


IN  THE  BACKWATERS  OF  LIFE 

clothes  an'  didn't  look  so  dark  an'  kinder  skeered, 
she'd  be  as  good  lookin'  as  most  anybody." 

So  ran  the  general  opinion  of  Ellen  Daw  among  the 
Draft  people  whenever  they  took  the  trouble  to  have 
an  opinion  at  all  about  her,  which,  in  truth,  was  only 
at  rare  intervals  when  a  dearth  of  more  interesting 
gossip  turned  their  thoughts  upon  those  who  dwelt  in 
the  backwaters  of  life;  for  even  the  Draft  has  its  back 
waters,  where  existence  seems  almost  at  a  standstill, 
and  where  personalities  stagnate,  or  develop,  in  their 
lonesome  aloofness,  unlocked  for  and  unnatural  traits. 

And  in  these  backwaters  Ellen  Daw  had  lived  her 
whole  life  of  twenty-two  years,  without  ever  knowing 
what  it  was  to  have  any  living  soul  care  for  her,  or 
worse  still,  without  ever  having  come  in  contact  with 
anyone,  man,  woman,  or  child,  who  desired  any  of  the 
store  of  affection  which  she  was  so  eager  yet  so  fearful 
to  give. 

At  her  birth  her  mother  had  died,  and  her  father 
handing  Ellen,  the  only  child,  over  to  Silas  Daw  and 
his  wife,  for  adoption,  had  sold  his  small  farm  on 
Drupe  Mountain,  and  moved  away  into  the  mining 
district  of  West  Virginia,  where  he  shortly  married 
again;  and  in  the  vicissitudes  of  supporting  a  steadily 
increasing  family,  probably  forgot,  or  certainly  did  not 
care  to  remember,  the  existence  of  his  other  child  in 
the  Jumping  Creek  neighbourhood. 

The  brief  episode  of  her  own  home  life  closed,  Ellen 
grew  up  as  Ellen  Daw,  and  most  people  forgot  that 
she  was  an  adopted  child.  Others  forgot  it,  but  as 

in 


THE   SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

soon  as  Ellen  grew  old  enough  to  know  what  it  meant 
it  never  slipped  from  her  mind.  The  Daws  had  no 
children  of  their  own,  and  Ellen  might  have  found  a 
small  store  of  affection  in  Mrs.  Daw's  heart  in  the 
place  of  her  three  little  dead  children  that  disease  and 
accident  had  ravished  from  her,  one  after  the  other; 
but,  unfortunately,  when  Ellen  was  still  very  small, 
Mrs.  Daw  received  a  severe  fall  from  which  she  was 
long  in  recovering,  and  which  left  her,  when  she  was 
once  more  able  to  be  about,  physically  strong,  but 
mentally  almost  idiotic.  And  by  Silas  Daw's  sister, 
who  came  to  take  charge  of  things  about  the  house  on 
Mrs.  Daw's  being  incapacitated,  Ellen  was  constantly 
reminded  of  the  fact  that  she  "  was  nothin'  but  er  little 
throwed  erway  thing." 

When  the  girl  was  fifteen  this  tyrant  died,  and  upon 
Ellen's  shoulders  fell  the  household  cares  of  the  farm. 

For  her  adopted  father  Ellen  found  it  impossible 
even  to  pretend  any  affection;  and  certainly  he  had 
none  for  her,  for  Silas  Daw  had  never  cared  in  all  his 
life  for  any  soul  but  himself,  and  never  for  anything 
save  his  own  pleasures  —  which  consisted  of  all  the 
hunting  he  felt  equal  to,  and  all  the  whiskey  he  could 
get  hold  of.  In  times  past  he  had  worked  well  enough 
on  the  farm  when  not  hunting  or  intoxicated,  but  now 
in  his  latter  years,  whiskey  and  rheumatism  had  so 
combined  to  disable  him,  that  the  brunt  of  the  farm 
work  fell  on  Ellen,  and  girl  though  she  was,  her  life 
was  filled  with  a  multiplicity  of  hard  tasks  that  might 
have  broken  even  a  strong  man  down,  and  which  lent 

112 


IN  THE  BACKWATERS  OF  LIFE 

to  her  sombre  face,  besides  its  wistfulness,  a  look  at 
times  of  utter  weariness,  as  though  no  sleep  could  ever 
be  long  enough  to  rest  her. 

Growing  up  in  this  reserved  and  unloved  atmosphere, 
Ellen  reached  out  eagerly  in  secret  and  bestowed  a 
wealth  of  unsuspected  affection  upon  different  people 
of  the  neighbourhood  who  chanced  in  some  way  to 
appeal  to  her  fancy.  And  once  having  made  them,  as 
it  were,  her  own,  by  her  affection,  she  adored  them 
with  the  motherhood  of  her  love;  and  for  the  happiness 
of  these  her  chosen  people,  no  sacrifice  on  her  own 
part  would  have  seemed  to  her  too  great. 

Unfortunately,  the  people  upon  whom  the  spirit  of 
her  love  alighted  never  needed  anything  that  she  had 
to  give  them,  least  of  all  her  yearning  affection,  and 
so  went  on  their  way  entirely  unconsicous  of  the 
abundance  of  devotion  that  was  theirs  to  take. 

For  love  and  for  loveliness  Ellen  Daw's  heart  was 
passionately  hungry.  Fortunately,  in  the  desire  for 
the  latter,  Nature,  that  dear  universal  old  woman,  who 
is  sometimes  a  god  and  sometimes  an  infinitely  close 
friend,  and  at  no  time  exclusive  with  the  exclusiveness 
of  mankind,  stepped  in  here  and  played  the  Fairy 
Godmother  to  this  lonely  Cinderella;  spreading  always 
before  her  an  endless  play  of  sunshine  and  cloud,  and 
subtle  evening  shadows;  summer  bloom  and  tender 
tricks  of  blended  colouring;  infinite  variety  of  music 
and  fugitive  perfumes;  all  wrought  into  a  marvellous 
vast  mosaic  of  delight,  made  up  of  sight,  of  sound,  and 
of  ethereal  fragrance,  and  of  all  the  manifestations  of 

"3 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

the  senses;  having  no  boundaries,  and  no  beginning  or 
end,  and  shot  through  and  welded  together  by  an  upper 
and  under  and  all-encompassing  envelopment  of  love, 
and  the  warm  sunshine  of  joy. 

Ellen  Daw  had  one  other  thing,  too,  to  give  her 
happiness:  a  thing  she  rejoiced  in,  and  hugged  very 
tight.  She  could  sing.  She  could  sing  better  than 
anyone  else  in  the  Draft,  or  anywhere  round;  better 
than  anyone  she  had  ever  heard,  and  she  knew  it. 
And  when  she  sang,  and  then  only,  she  loved  herself 
with  a  passionate  uplifting,  because  then  she  herself 
became  the  vehicle  of  something  beautiful. 

It  was  this  eager  desire  for  beauty  in  every  form 
which  made  her  wistful  affections  centre  with  peculiar 
intensity  around  Mary  Reddin  and  David  Cree,  because 
they  were  the  two  most  beautiful  people  she  knew. 

Mary  Reddin  was  a  constant  source  of  wonder  and 
delight  to  her.  Her  loveliness  and  gayety,  and  frank 
lack  of  reserve,  fascinated  and  terrified  her  almost 
equally.  When  they  were  together  Mary's  bright 
friendliness  and  playfulness  —  more  than  any  of  the 
other  girls  of  the  neighbourhood  ever  showed  her  — 
alike  embarrassed  and  fascinated  her,  and  brought  out 
all  her  awkward  shyness;  so  that  Mary  never  felt, 
though  she  truly  desired  to  be  friends  with  Ellen,  that 
she  ever  got  a  step  nearer  to  the  silent  girl.  But  when 
Ellen  was  alone,  every  look  of  the  other's  lovely  little 
face,  and  touch  of  her  radiant  manner,  came  back  to 
her  with  overwhelming  sweetness,  and  she  felt  almost 
a  maternal  fierceness  of  protection  for  this  joyous 

114 


IN  THE  BACKWATERS  OF  LIFE 

personality,  though  she  was  only  Mary's  senior  by  a 
few  years. 

With  David  Cree,  Ellen  thought  she  was  in  love,  in 
the  ordinary  meaning  of  the  expression.  Never  in 
her  wildest  dreams  did  she  think  of  his  loving  her;  her 
whole  opinion  of  herself  was  too  humble,  even  if  her 
long  apprenticeship  to  indifference  had  failed  to  teach 
her  her  lesson.  But  under  down-dropped  lids,  that 
never  gave  her  secret  away,  she  watched  his  every 
movement,  and  the  few  idle  words  he  had  ever  spoken 
to  her  were  treasured  carefully  in  her  heart.  But 
though  Ellen  thus  deceived  herself,  anyone  who  really 
knew  her  would  have  known  that  she  was  no  more 
truly  in  love  with  David  Cree  than  she  was  with  Mary 
Reddin,  or  in  truth  with  any  manifestation  of  beauty. 

At  the  head  of  the  Draft,  where  it  widens  out  for  a 
moment  before  plunging  into  the  side  of  Drupe  Moun 
tain,  Ellen  rode  splashingly  into  the  middle  of  Jumping 
Creek,  where  one  fords  it  for  the  last  time  on  the  way 
up  the  mountain,  and  letting  the  mare's  head  down  to 
drink  she  turned  herself  a  little  in  her  curious  high- 
pommelled  old  saddle,  and  looked  with  expectant  eyes 
—  as  she  always  did  here  —  across  the  golden  thread 
of  the  stream  to  a  little  green  knoll  —  peppered  all  over 
just  now  with  dandelions  —  which  rose  with  a  gracious 
round  slope  out  of  the  valley,  and  swept  back  in  ascend 
ing  steeps  until  it  lost  itself  in  the  wooded  heights  of 
Peter's  Ridge.  And  on  this  grassy  knoll,  in  all  its 
glory,  stood  the  marvel  and  admiration  of  the  Jumping 
Creek  Draft. 

"5 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

A  neat,  four- roomed  brick  cottage,  with  white  porches 
at  back  and  front,  a  paling  fence  around  it,  and  chicken- 
coop  and  woodshed  in  the  rear,  may  not  seem  a  thing 
to  excite  intense  curiosity  and  heated  speculation. 
Nevertheless,  its  erection  in  the  Draft  gave  good  cause 
for  surprise  and  comment. 

In  the  first  place,  it  was  the  only  brick  house  that 
had  ever  appeared  there  —  indeed  it  was  the  only  one 
in  a  radius  of  ten  miles,  all  the  other  dwellings  being 
for  the  most  part  log  cabins,  with  an  occasional  more 
pretentious  frame  house. 

In  the  second  place  —  why  should  such  finished 
elegance  and  luxury  be  tucked  away  from  the  general 
public  in  the  obscurity  of  the  head  of  the  Draft,  while, 
had  it  been  placed  in  the  lower  and  more  populous 
part  of  the  valley,  it  might  daily  have  gladdened  many 
an  eye  with  mingled  envy  and  admiration?  In  the 
third  and  last  place,  and  most  of  all  to  be  wondered 
over  —  why  had  such  a  nest  as  this  been  built  by 
Adrian  Blair,  an  unmarried  man,  and  one,  moreover, 
who  was  not  known  to  be  paying  particular  attention 
to  any  of  the  pretty  and  attractive  girls  of  the  vicinity  ? 

Truly,  when  one  took  all  these  things  into  considera 
tion,  it  was  hardly  surprising  that  the  little  demure 
brick  house  should  be  food  for  such  intensity  of  specu 
lation. 

For  six  months  it  had  been  finished;  and  for  six 
months  it  had  stood  empty  and  unfurnished  here  on 
its  hilltop,  looking  down  the  widening  expanse  of  the 
Draft,  and  waiting  for  —  what  ? 

116 


IN  THE  BACKWATERS   OF  LIFE 

From  her  perch  on  her  old  mare  Ellen  looked  eagerly 
at  it  on  this  afternoon  with  the  familiar  delight  with 
which  a  child  regards  a  much  admired  toy  in  a  shop 
window. 

Every  time  she  passed  the  house  she  paused  in  the 
stream,  ostensibly  to  water  her  horse,  but  in  reality 
that  she  might  fill  her  eyes  with  all  the  charms  of  the 
little  dwelling. 

None  of  its  smallest  details  escaped  her;  and  once, 
when  no  one  was  about,  she  had  hidden  her  horse 
behind  a  clump  of  bushes  by  the  roadside,  and  with 
quick  glances  in  all  directions  had  slipped  through  the 
gateway  and  up  to  the  very  porch  of  the  house. 

It  was  to  her  a  visit  to  an  enchanted  palace.  She 
had  never  ventured  to  go  again.  But  no  second  trip 
was  needed  to  keep  fresh  the  remembrance  of  all  its 
charms,  and  she  had  only  to  shut  her  eyes  to  see  again 
the  view  down  the  valley  from  the  little  porch,  and  to 
remember  that  in  the  morning  the  sun  looked  in  at  the 
kitchen  windows,  and  that  in  the  afternoon  it  brightened 
the  ones  at  the  front.  Nor  did  it  require  any  effort  on 
her  part  to  recall  the  woodshed  filled  to  overflowing 
with  cut  stove  wood,  nor  that  little  fenced  patch  of 
ground  at  the  back  lying  so  ideally  for  a  vegetable 
garden. 

As  Ellen  raised  her  eyes  on  this  particular  evening 
to  the  house  above  her,  with  her  usual  flush  of  excite 
ment,  she  saw  that  since  her  passing  it  in  the  morning 
Adrian  Blair  had  been  there  at  work,  and  now  two 
little  strips  of  fresh  earth  ran  from  the  porch  steps  on 

117 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

either  side  of  the  path  down  to  the  gate;  so  smooth 
and  so  even,  and  so  irresistibly  attractive,  that  Ellen's 
very  fingers  tingled  to  drop  the  necessary  flower  seeds 
into  their  bewitching  depths. 

"Well,  I  declar,"  she  whispered  in  tender  delight. 

To  her  tired  and  longing  heart  these  waiting  seed 
beds  seemed  to  give  the  last  finishing  touch  to  the 
place,  and  now,  how  dear,  how  homelike  it  all  was! 

"Well,"  she  whispered  again  to  herself,  "hit's  nice 
ter  know  there  is  sech  pretty  places  in  ther  world. 
Hope  nobody  won't  ever  live  in  hit  es  won't  take  keer 
of  hit,"  she  added.  For  it  seemed  to  her  that  it  would 
be  real  suffering  for  this  little  cuddled  dwelling  ever  to 
fall  into  careless  hands. 

Across  the  creek  Ellen  Daw's  way  left  the  main  road 
and  struck  into  a  steep  and  rocky  path  between  two 
sharp  ridges  of  Drupe  Mountain.  Often  in  the  early 
spring  overflowed  by  a  torrent  of  rushing  yellow  water, 
even  now,  at  its  best,  the  track  was  scarcely  more  than 
a  dried  creek  bed.  To  Ellen  and  the  old  mare,  however, 
its  ruggedness  was  familiar  enough,  and  neither  was  in 
any  way  disturbed  by  the  blundering  struggles  of  the 
mare  as  she  scrambled  over  loose  stones  and  up  washed- 
out  banks,  her  progress  filling  the  shut-in  ravine  with 
crashing  re-echoing  sounds. 

It  was  nearly  dark  now,  especially  so  in  this  narrow 
way  between  the  ridges,  and  more  than  once  Ellen 
adjured  her  horse  to  "  Git  erlong  now,  er  I  won't  git 
my  work  done  up  'til  way  in  ther  night." 

But  in  truth  she  was  in  no  very  great  hurry  to  get 
118 


IN  THE  BACKWATERS  OF  LIFE 

home,  for  she  loved  the  still  woods  at  this  time  of  the 
evening,  and  was  loth  to  exchange  their  quiet  and 
delicate  fragrance  for  the  hard  tasks  and  probable 
scolding  from  her  adopted  father,  which  awaited  her 
return. 

So  accustomed  was  she  to  the  stillness  and  loneliness 
of  the  road  it  was  with  a  quick  start  of  surprise, 
as  her  horse  came  upon  a  grass-grown  stretch  where 
the  hoof-beats  fell  almost  noiselessly,  that  she  heard 
some  one  or  something  coming  down  the  track  ahead 
of  her,  still  hidden  by  a  sharp  bend  of  the  road.  At 
the  sound  the  girl  straightened  up  and  caught  her  reins 
tighter  with  nervous  dread,  while  she  keyed  herself  to 
listen. 

On  that  lonely  track  between  the  mountain's  black 
sides,  and  in  the  fading  still  light,  there  was  something 
terrifying  in  the  sound  of  that  mysterious  thing  blun 
dering  down  the  mountain  toward  her;  and  Ellen, 
who  rarely  knew  what  physical  fear  was,  caught 
herself  whispering  in  surprise,  "I  —  I  believe  I'm 
skeered! " 

It  was  an  infinitely  deserted  road,  and  in  case  of 
danger  the  girl  might  have  shrieked  in  vain  for  help. 
Ellen  knew  this  only  too  well,  and  —  and,  what  was  it, 
what  could  it  be  just  around  the  bend  there  ? 

The  sound  was  very  close  now,  and  she  could  make 
out  heavy  feet  clumping  and  blundering  among  the 
loose  stones,  and  once  a  pebble,  kicked  from  the  road, 
went  flying  away  into  the  undergrowth  with  a  tiny 
crash. 

119 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

She  and  the  thing  were  very  close  to  the  bend  now; 
in  a  moment  they  would  round  it  simultaneously. 

"Lord!"  the  girl  breathed  fearfully,  and  with  the 
ejaculation  made  the  turn.  Out  of  the  twilight  there 
reeled  toward  her  the  slouched  figure  of  a  man.  His 
head  was  sunk  down  low  between  his  shoulders  and  a 
thick  growth  of  beard  covered  most  of  his  face.  Not 
raising  his  eyes,  he  passed  the  girl  unseeingly,  muttering 
under  his  breath  and  slipping  among  the  stones. 

At  the  sudden  appearance  of  his  vague  shape  out  of 
the  gloom,  Ellen's  horse  had  given  a  surprisingly  quick 
bound  to  one  side,  and  then  stopped  with  a  startled 
snort. 

With  a  quieting  word  to  the  frightened  animal,  Ellen 
turned  quickly  in  her  saddle  and  looked  after  the 
unkempt  figure,  her  heart  beating  unreasonably  fast. 

"Reckon  hit  must  be  one  er  Mr.  Whitcomb's  new 
hands  at  ther  mill,"  she  reassured  herself  under  her 
breath,  for  she  was  surprised  and  a  trifle  ashamed  that 
such  an  ordinary  occurrence  should  have  so  startled 
her.  Aleck  Whitcomb's  sawmill  was  set  for  the  present 
on  that  part  of  Drupe  Mountain  not  very  far  from 
the  Daws'  place;  the  road  to  it  turned  off  Ellen's  path 
a  little  distance  further  on,  and  nothing  was  more 
probable  than  that  the  man  who  had  just  passed  her 
had  come  from  there.  Ellen  sniffed  the  air — "Too 
drunk  ter  see  where  he's  ergoin',"  she  concluded. 
Then  she  gave  a  queer  little  hysterical  laugh. 

"I  wouldn't  er  thought  ennything'd  er  skeered  me 
so.  I'd  better  be  er  gittin'  erlong  er  somethin'  else'll 

120 


IN  THE  BACKWATERS  OF  LIFE 

come  er  jumpin'  at  me  outer  ther  dark,"  she  told 
herself  scornfully.  But  contemptuous  as  she  was 
over  her  fright,  she  nevertheless  quickened  the  mare's 
gait  to  such  good  purpose  that  it  was  not  many  min 
utes  before  she  arrived  at  her  own  home  barn  at 
almost  a  trot. 


121 


CHAPTER   VIII 

A  DREAM  OF   FRESH  EARTH 

IT  was  the  day  after  the  planting  of  Robert  Reddin's 
corn-field,  and  the  long  golden  fingers  of  afternoon 
sunlight  beckoned  to  Mary  Reddin  irresistibly  with  the 
sweet  allurement  of  out-of-doors. 

"  Ef  you  don't  need  me  no  more  right  now,"  she  said 
to  her  mother,  "I  b'lieve  I'll  jest  run  over  to  A'nt 
Marthy  Lamfire's  an'  git  ther  flower  seeds  she's  bin 
er  savin'  fer  me.  She's  got  some  er  them  red  beans 
that  brings  these  here  little  hummin'  birds;  an'  some 
other  seeds  too,  an'  looks  like  termorrer's  goin' 
ter  be  er  nice  day,  an'  I'd  like  ter  git  my  garden 
planted." 

"I  don't  need  yer,"  Mrs.  Reddin  answered,  "but 
Lor'  me,  Mary,  I'd  think  you'd  be  skeered  er  that  ole 
crazy  woman." 

"Mary  ain't  skeered  er  nufnn',"  the  next  to  the 
smallest  Reddin  suddenly  piped  up,  regarding  her  with 
baby  eyes  of  adoration. 

"Oh  yes,  sir,  I  am  skeered  er  somethin',"  Mary 
returned. 

He  looked  at  her  as  one  looks  upon  the  shattering  of 
a  dearly  loved  idol. 

122 


A   DREAM   OF   FRESH   EARTH 

"Is  you  skeered,  Mary?"  he  said.  ''What  is  you 
skeered  of?" 

"I'm  skeered  er  you"  she  returned,  looking  down 
at  him  with  mock  eyes  of  terror. 

A  look  of  wonder  and  delight  dawned  in  his  small 
face,  and  he  even  assayed  a  slight  masculine  swagger 
ill  suited  to  his  skirts;  but  his  answer  came  with  fine 
graciousness : 

"You  needn't  be  skeered  er  me,  Mary,  I  won't  do 
anyfing  ter  yer,"  he  said. 

"But  I  am  skeered,"  she  persisted.  "I'm  skeered 
you'll  eat  me  up!"  and  thereat  she  suddenly  swooped 
upon  him,  and  gathering  him  up  in  her  arms  she 
proceeded  herself  to  devour  him  in  the  orthodox  manner 
of  older  sisters,  and  having  presently  reduced  him  to  a 
perfectly  limp  state  of  breathless  gurgles,  she  deposited 
him  in  a  chair,  and  catching  up  her  pinky  sunbonnet 
flitted  out  of  the  house  and  down  the  lane  like  a  wind 
blown  streak  of  sunlight. 

It  was  a  couple  of  miles  from  the  Reddins'  place  to 
the  Mossy  Hollow,  and  Mary  walked  quickly  that  she 
might  be  back  in  time  to  help  with  the  evening  chores. 
But  in  spite  of  her  haste  she  found  time  to  note  the 
little  wild  flowers  rioting  in  the  sunny  corners  of  the 
fence  rows,  and  to  observe  a  bluebird's  nest  in  an  old 
hollow  stump;  and  at  one  place  where  a  barren,  slaty 
hillside  was  all  a  delicate  haze  of  wild  pansies  she 
lingered  a  few  moments  in  delight. 

"I  certainly  am  glad  ter  see  yer  all  ergin,"  she  said, 
nodding  politely  to  the  flowers.  "Hit  seems  er  power- 

123 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

ful  long  time  sence  you  was  here,  an'  I  wished  you'd 
stay  all  summer;  but  reckon  you'll  hev  took  off  them 
pretty  blue  dresses  an'  gone  ter  bed  ergin  'fore  hardly 
er  month's  out.  I  wouldn't  be  that  lazy  fer  nothin'," 
she  cried  with  a  show  of  scorn.  But  she  waved  her 
hand  to  them  as  she  left  the  pretty  place,  just  to  show 
she  was  in  fun,  and  the  pansies  understood  perfectly 
and  their  little  flower  faces  lost  none  of  their  merry 
sweetness  at  her  words. 

She  was  warm  and  a  little  flushed  when  she  came  at 
length  to  the  mouth  of  the  Mossy  Hollow,  and  glad 
enough  to  be  taken  into  its  shady  arms,  for  she  had 
walked  fast,  and  part  of  the  way  she  had  even  danced 

—  for  truly  had  she  not  joyous  cause  for  dancing  ? 
A  little  distance  up  the  hollow  she  sat  down  by  the 
pathway  to  rest  and  cool  off.     The  woods  were  all 
starred  with  pink  and  white  trillium  blossoms,  and 
here  and  there  on  the  azalea,  bushes  were  bursting  buds 
and  almost  full  blooms  of  rosy  colour,  and  in  the  air 
was  the  subtle  perfume  of  moist,  shady  woods  and 
growing  things. 

Mary  drew  a  long  soft  breath  and  smiled  happily. 
She  had  a  delicate  sense  of  aliveness  and  of  well-being, 
and  suddenly  in  the  mysterious  atmosphere  of  the  woods 

—  her  thoughts  winging  along  the  golden  stretches  of 
her  love  —  she  felt  as  though  she  were  waking  into 
communion  with  something  wider  and  greater  than  her 
small  self,  as  though  she  half  guessed  at  a  fuller  life, 
a  life  not  bounded  by  any  of  the  trivial  confines  that 
she  knew,  but  running  through  all  the  worlds  and 

124 


A   DREAM   OF   FRESH   EARTH 

more  besides;  and  as  if  in  answer  to  it  faculties  within 
herself  suddenly  awoke  and  responded,  and  for  a  space 
she  was  swept  away  on  an  infinite  wave  of  existence 
greater  and  more  alive  than  anything  she  had  ever 
known. 

For  a  short  time  only  was  this  curious  uplifting  upon 
her,  then  the  strange  illusive  thing  drew  itself  away 
once  more  into  the  unknown  from  whence  it  had  looked 
forth,  and  again  she  was  only  a  half -frightened  girl 
sitting  alone  in  the  green  woods  of  May.  Yet  though 
it  fled,  in  its  trail  was  left  a  great  exultation  and  love 
of  life,  and  a  compassion  for  those  who  were  somehow 
out  of  tune  with  it;  and  as  she  rose,  the  light  of  her 
love  and  of  her  awed  surprise  still  on  her  face,  her 
thoughts  turned  compassionately  to  the  old  woman 
whom  she  was  going  to  visit,  and  who  seemed  so 
cruelly  shut  away  from  all  the  gladness  of  existence 
by  the  grey  walls  of  her  own  bitter  thoughts. 

There  had  been  something  of  a  tie  between  Martha 
Lamfire  and  Mary  Reddin  ever  since  a  day  five  or  six 
years  ago  when  the  old  woman  had  noticed  Mary  for 
the  first  time. 

It  was  a  winter  school  day,  and  Mary,  having  been 
delayed  by  something,  was  racing  down  the  road  to 
overtake  the  main  bunch  of  the  Draft  children.  She 
ran  lightly  with  her  head  up  in  the  air,  the  stinging 
cold  making  her  cheeks  flame,  and  suddenly  at  a  turn 
in  the  road  she  came  face  to  face  with  old  Martha. 
Stepping  quickly  out  of  the  narrow  beaten  path  into 
the  deep  snow,  Mary  would  have  passed  with  a  hasty 

125 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

"  Howdy,"  —  for  like  most  of  the  children  of  the 
neighbourhood  she  was  afraid  of  the  old  woman's 
curious  look  and  wild  eyes.  But  as  they  came  abreast 
a  skinny  hand  shot  out  all  at  once  from  under  the 
frayed  plaid  shawl  and  gripping  Mary's  arm  brought 
her  to  a  sudden  stand.  For  a  moment  the  old  woman 
peered  into  the  girl's  rosy  face  with  startling  black 
eyes;  then  —  "Aire  you  Robert  Reddin's  girl?"  she 
demanded. 

"Yes'm,  Mary  Reddin,"  Mary  faltered,  panting  a 
little,  for  she  was  frightened.  Martha  looked  at  her  a 
moment  longer. 

"Yer  pretty,"  she  said  at  length  harshly,  "so  was 
my  Ammy,  but  hit  didn't  help  her  none,"  and  loosing 
the  girl's  arm  with  a  fling,  she  went  on  once  more  upon 
her  lonely  way.  And  Mary  sped  home  to  question  her 
mother  about  Ammy  Lamfire.  And  after  she  heard 
the  girl's  tragic  little  story,  child  though  she  was,  she 
felt  an  eager  desire  to  be  kind  to  the  old  woman,  and 
with  many  little  acts  of  friendliness  she  wooed  her  at 
length  into  something  of  an  intimacy. 

When  Mary  made  her  way  to  the  lonely  cabin  at 
the  head  of  the  hollow  on  this  occasion,  she  found  old 
Martha  at  work  in  her  garden  patch,  her  whole  shriv 
elled  personality  almost  of  a  colour  with  the  brown 
earth. 

The  last  ten  years  had  altered  her  little.  The  death 
of  Amabel  had  made  the  one  great  change  in  her  life, 
and  aged  and  withered  by  that,  like  a  blighted  leaf, 
the  years  afterwards  had  little  effect  upon  her.  In  the 

126 


A   DREAM   OF  FRESH   EARTH 

dooryard  a  few  perennials  shot  up  out  of  the  grass, 
remnants  of  Amabel's  little  garden  of  long  ago,  and 
by  the  corner  of  the  porch  a  great  bush  of  bridal  wreath 
was  almost  hidden  in  its  own  clouds  of  white  bloom. 

"Howdy,  A'nt  Marthy,"  Mary  called  across  the 
fence  to  her.  The  old  woman  spun  around  at  her 
greeting,  and  whipped  off  her  sunbonnet  that  she 
might  see. 

"Howdy,  howdy,"  she  jerked.  "Walk  up  onter 
ther  porch  an'  set  yerself  down."  And  sticking  her 
unwieldy  mattock  into  the  ground  she  came  across  the 
furrows  to  the  girl  in  uneven  strides. 

"I  come  over  ter  see  could  I  git  ther  flower  seeds  yer 
promised,"  Mary  said,  dropping  down  to  a  seat  on 
the  edge  of  the  porch. 

"I'll  fetch  'em  right  out  now,"  said  the  other,  dis 
appearing  as  she  spoke  into  the  cabin. 

"  Ef  yer  hadn't  er  come  fer  'em  terday  I'd  er  sent  yer 
word,  fer  ther  moon's  right  now,  an'  hit's  time  they 
was  in  ther  ground,"  she  continued,  presently  reap 
pearing  with  her  hands  full  of  little  newspaper  packages 
wrapped  around  with  thread,  in  which  were  the  desired 
seeds,  together  with  many  a  withered  petal. 

"There,"  she  said,  dropping  them  all  save  one 
package  into  Mary's  lap;  "them's  ther  coxcombs,  an' 
zinnias,  an'  balsams,  an'  marigolds;  an'  that  big 
package  is  ther  red  beans." 

So  saying  she  seated  herself  on  the  step  by  the  girl, 
and  drawing  her  thin  knees  up  under  her  chin  she 
clasped  her  arms  about  them,  her  back  against  a  post 

127 


THE   SOWING   OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

of  the  porch.  "An'  now,"  she  went  on,  regarding  the 
girl  with  bright  witch  eyes,  "I'm  ergoin'  ter  giv'  you 
what  I  never  'lowed  ter  giv'  ter  nobody,"  and  un 
clasping  one  hand  she  held  up  the  little  bundle  she 
had  retained. 

"This  here,"  she  said,  "is  some  maid-in-ther-mist 
seed,  er  ther  same  stock  es  some  Ammy  planted  ther 
year  she  died.  I've  planted  hit  every  year  sence  and 
saved  ther  seed,  an'  now  I'm  ergoin'  ter  giv'  hit  ter 
you,  seein'  es  you're  a  good  hand  with  flowers,  an'  I 
want  you  ter  plant  hit  so's  ther'll  be  somethin'  left  in 
ther  Draft  es  Ammy  hed  er  hand  in." 

Mary  took  the  seeds  held  out  to  her  —  descendants 
of  those  far-away  ancestors  planted  almost  twenty-five 
years  ago  by  the  dead  girl. 

"But  whyn't  yer  plant  'em  yerself  this  spring  like  yer 
allers  do?"  she  questioned. 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head. 

"I'll  not  see  'em  bloom  this  year,"  she  said. 

"Lor',  A'nt  Marthy,  why  not?"  cried  the  girl. 

"No,  sir,  I  won't  see  'em  bloom,"  the  old  woman 
went  on,  "I've  hed  er  vision  er  fresh  earth  two  nights 
runnin',  an'  reckon  I  know  well  ernough  what  that 
means." 

"Lor',"  Mary  returned,  trying  to  turn  the  words  off 
lightly.  "  Don't  talk  that  erway;  reckon  most  anybody 
could  dream  er  fresh  earth  in  ther  spring.  I  was 
plantin'  corn  all  yesterd'y  an'  I  seen  er  whole  field  er 
fresh  earth  las'  night." 

At  her  words  the  woman's  eyes  lit  up  like  a  flame, 
128 


A   DREAM   OF   FRESH   EARTH 

and  she  thrust  her  strange,  crazy  old  face  close  to  the 
girl's. 

"Don't  yer  make  er  mock  er  me,  girl,"  she  cried 
fiercely,  as  Mary  shrunk  away  from  her,  startled.  "I 
tell  yer  I've  dreamt  er  dream  twict  er  fresh  earth,  an' 
ther'll  be  two  graves  dug  in  this  yere  Draft  'fore  ther 
month's  out;  one  er  them'll  be  mine,  I  reckon,  an'  ther 
Lord  knows  I  don't  keer  ef  hit  is;  but  who  ther  other'll 
be  ther  dream  ain't  said."  She  got  up  suddenly  and 
stood  beside  the  girl,  looking  away  down  the  little 
hollow.  "Aha-a,"  she  said  slowly,  "two  fresh  graves; 
an'  I've  seed  er  shadder  in  ther  Draft  too,  what  nobody 
else  ain't  seed  yit,  but  they  will  see  hit.  An'  hit's  er 
shadder  what's  follerin'  David  Cree." 

"David  Cree?"  screamed  the  girl,  struggling  to  her 
feet. 

The  old  woman  whirled  upon  her,  "What's  David 
Cree  ter  you?"  she  demanded. 

Mary  put  her  hand  to  her  breast  and  tried  to  recover 
herself. 

"He  —  he's — "  she  stammered  and  was  silent. 

The  old  woman  looked  at  her  a  moment  half  pity 
ingly.  "O  Lord,  them  Crees!"  she  cried  at  length, 
passionately.  "Alderson  Cree  broke  my  girl's  heart, 
an'  you'd  better  mind  out  David  don't  break  your'n." 

For  a  moment  longer  she  stared  wildly  at  the  girl; 
then  she  spoke  in  a  softened  tone  and  her  look  was 
almost  affectionate. 

"You  don't  believe  what  I  say,"  she  said,  "but  ef 
I'm  took  sick  will  yer  come  ter  me?" 

129 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

"Er  course  I  will,  A'nt  Marthy,  er  course,"  Mary 
promised  eagerly,  stooping  to  pick  up  the  dropped  seed 
packages,  and  slipping  them  into  her  pocket. 

"I  mus'  go  now,"  she  said  hesitatingly,  the  colour 
beginning  to  come  back  to  her  face,  though  she  was 
still  frightened. 

Martha  stepped  over  to  the  bush  of  bridal  wreath 
and  began  breaking  off  long  branches  of  the  snowy 
bloom. 

"Be  you  goin'  back  by  ther  low  places,  past  ther 
Hull  graveyard?"  she  asked. 

Mary  wavered  a  moment.  "I  —  I  reckon  so,"  she 
said  at  length,  though  she  had  meant  to  return  by  the 
road,  the  way  by  which  she  had  come. 

"Then  take  these  here  ter  Ammy,"  the  other  said, 
loading  her  arms  with  the  white  sprays.  "Put  'em  on 
her  grave  an'  tell  her  I  say  her  mammy'll  be  erlong 
soon." 

Mary  gathered  the  bridal  wreath  carefully  in  one 
arm,  and  climbing  over  the  fence  set  out  once  more 
down  the  hollow,  the  old  woman  calling  after  her, 
"Be  sure  an'  come  when  I  send  fer  yer." 

Mary  walked  quickly  along  the  path,  and  when  a 
bend  hid  her  from  the  cabin  she  even  ran,  for  she  had 
been  really  frightened  this  time  and  she  still  had  an 
uncomfortable  feeling  that  the  crazy  old  woman  might 
be  following  her.  But  when  she  reached  the  mouth 
of  the  hollow  where  it  enters  the  Draft,  she  found  this 
wider  world  quite  as  gay  and  almost  as  sunny  as  when 
she  had  left  it,  and  its  tranquillity  reassured  her  some- 

130 


A   DREAM   OF   FRESH   EARTH 

what.  Nevertheless  she  whispered  half  resentfully,  "I 
wish  folks  wouldn't  go  dreamin'  er  fresh  earth,  an' 
talkin'  er  shadders  on  er  pretty  day  like  this."  But 
then  she  whispered  again  to  comfort  herself,  "Pshaw! 
hit's  jestther  pore  ole  soul's  craziness."  And  the  world 
after  all,  as  seen  from  the  Draft,  appearing  to  be  a  safe 
and  happy  place,  she  gave  her  shoulders  a  toss  to  rid 
herself  of  the  black  fear  that  had  settled  upon  her, 
and  then  went  on  her  way  almost  as  radiantly  as 
before. 

Crossing  the  main  road  of  the  Draft  she  climbed  a 
fence  or  two  and  struck  into  the  little  path  leading 
toward  the  Reddins'  farm  over  the  low  places  on  a 
spur  of  the  Drupe  Mountain,  which  here  almost  cuts 
the  Draft  in  two. 

The  path  was  elastic  with  moss  under  her  feet,  and 
the  hillsides  here  sloped  towards  the  south,  so  that 
these  woods  were  sunnier  and  warmer  than  those  of 
the  Mossy  Hollow,  and  in  their  genial  hearts  the  very 
essence  of  spring  seemed  rioting  in  bloom  and  un 
curling  fern  fronds;  as  though  the  great  spirit  of  the 
woods  had  divided  itself  into  a  myriad  of  tiny  person 
alities,  and  become  incarnated  for  the  mere  joy  of 
the  earth  life  in  springtime  into  all  the  little  blue 
and  white  hepaticas,  the  dainty  claytonias,  bloodroot, 
adder's  tongue,  columbine,  and  all  the  assembled  mul 
titude  of  rainbow  tint  and  fragrance;  like  a  sunbeam 
broken  by  the  prism  into  its  component  colours.  And 
one  might  have  imagined  an  undercurrent  of  gay 
conversation  between  these  delicate  personalities  —  all 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

different  manifestations  of  one  great  thought;  the 
conversation  in  a  key  too  ethereal  for  physical  ears 
which  guess  not  of  the  wonderful  unheard  things  which 
go  on  above  and  below  their  scale  of  hearing.  Or 
perhaps,  after  all,  the  spirits  of  flowers  communicate 
with  each  other  by  fragrance,  and  hold  long  conver 
sations  all  in  perfume. 

At  the  Hull  burying-ground  where  Amabel  Lamfire's 
dead  beauty  had  been  laid  five  and  twenty  years  before, 
Mary  turned  from  the  pathway  and  stepped  carefully 
across  the  little  uneven  mounds,  until  she  came  to 
Amabel's.  There  was  no  stone  to  mark  it  from  the 
rest  of  the  graves,  but  Mary  knew  it  by  a  clump  of 
jonquils  at  its  head.  Few  indeed  of  the  graves  had 
stones,  the  remembrance  of  their  position  being  en 
trusted  to  love,  helped  out  by  an  occasional  root  of 
some  of  the  home  flowers,  taken  from  the  dooryard 
and  planted  there  to  make,  as  it  were,  an  added  tender 
connection  between  the  departed  and  their  old  sur 
roundings;  and  among  the  graves  that  May  afternoon 
many  an  old-fashioned  garden  bloom  had  opened  its 
spring  eyes,  a  little  surprised,  perhaps,  to  find  itself  in 
the  quiet  of  the  shadowy  woods  instead  of  the  accus 
tomed  sunniness  of  the  dooryard  where  it  had  yearly 
battled  for  existence  with  the  all-pervading  children 
and  chickens. 

At  Amabel's  grave  Mary  knelt  down,  and  taking  the 
burden  of  white  blooms  from  her  arm  she  laid  them 
over  the  carpet  of  periwinkle  vine  which  had  run  riot 
among  all  the  graves,  and  as  the  last  white  spray  left 

132 


A   DREAM   OF   FRESH   EARTH 

her  hand  she  whispered  softly,  "Yer  mammy  sent  yer 
these,  an'  she  says  she'll  be  erlong  soon."  Then  half 
surprised  at  herself  she  looked  wondering  down  at  the 
heap  of  blooms.  Why  had  she  so  naturally  repeated 
the  crazy  old  woman's  message?  Just  as  though  the 
dead  girl  could  really  hear  —  could  she  perhaps  ? 
With  the  thought  the  realization  of  the  nearness  of  the 
unseen  world  swept  over  the  girl  for  the  first  time. 
Was  it  possible  that  Amabel  Lamfire,  in  a  beauty  of 
spirit  probably  far  more  beautiful  than  even  her 
exquisite  physical  personality  had  been,  stood  by  and 
watched  this  other  young  daughter  of  the  Draft  piling 
the  white  bridal  wreath  all  over  her  grave  —  the  bridal 
wreath  which  was  never  hers  to  wear?  And  if  she 
watched,  what  did  she  feel  toward  the  girl  who  loved 
Alderson  Cree's  son?  Would  she  resent  another's 
happiness  because  her  own  heart  had  been  broken? 
With  a  quick  fear  Mary  put  her  delicately  pure  face 
down  among  the  flowers,  and  whispered,  "Let  me  an1 
David  be  happy!  Oh!  let  me  an'  David  be  happy," 
over  and  over.  And  in  her  heart  she  meant  her  petition 
only  for  Amabel  Lamfire. 

For  a  moment  more  she  bent  over  the  grave,  then 
with  a  last  touch  upon  the  flowers  she  rose  to  her  feet 
and  stepping  again  across  the  other  graves  regained 
the  path,  and  as  she  did  so  she  came  suddenly  face  to 
face  with  David  Cree. 

David  gave  a  low,  joyous  laugh,  as  though  the  sight 
of  her  was  the  consummation  of  a  long  train  of  golden 
dreams. 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

"I  thought  maybe  you'd  come  back  this  erway,"  he 
said.  "Mis'  Reddin  said  you'd  gone  over  ter  A'nt 
Marthy's." 

He  stood  still  in  the  path  before  her  without  moving 
nearer,  just  looking  at  her,  as  though  the  reality  of  her 
sweet  presence  came  to  him  as  a  fresh  surprise. 

Then  all  at  once,  and  still  in  silence,  he  opened  wide 
his  arms  and  held  them  out  to  her. 

An  instant  Mary  hesitated  half  fearfully.  But  there 
was  nothing  now  about  him  of  the  fierce  passion  that 
he  had  showed  the  evening  before,  instead  his  silent 
gesture  wooed  her  tenderly,  almost  reverently. 

A  moment  more  she  paused,  then  with  the  flash  of 
a  bird  she  went  into  the  shelter  of  his  arms,  and  her 
heart  and  her  soul  went  with  her. 

And  thus  in  the  green  aisles  of  the  spring  woods 
David  Cree  and  Mary  Reddin  made  their  promises  to 
one  another,  up  by  the  old  Hull  graveyard. 


134 


CHAPTER    IX 

A  HAPPY  MAN 

"HAPPY  is  the  man  who  has  found  his  life's  work." 
Ah!  happy  indeed!  But  how  few  find  it,  or  when 
finding  it  recognize  it,  and  know  past  all  doubt  that  in 
that  occupation  and  in  no  other  shall  they  find  their 
best  fulfilment! 

How  many,  instead,  answer  to  every  chance  pipe  of 
circumstance,  and  dance  first  in  one  direction  and  then 
in  another,  leaving  behind  a  zig-zag  feeble  trail,  in 
place  of  the  straight  line  of  progress. 

Finding  his  life's  work,  George  Hedrick  knew  it, 
and  was  a  happy  man.  He  loved  life  and  the  com 
panionship  of  his  fellow-men,  women,  and  children; 
he  loved  the  gossip  of  things  past  and  present,  and  the 
guesses  at  the  future;  he  loved  a  shady  porch  to  sit 
upon  in  the  summer,  and  a  warm  stove  to  toast  his 
feet  at  in  the  winter,  and  always  in  both  seasons  an 
extra  chair  for  a  friend;  and  all  these  things  of  his 
desire  came  to  him  in  full  measure,  pressed  down  and 
running  over,  with  the  keeping  of  a  cross-roads  store. 

"An'  I  wouldn't  trade  this  here  little  ole  store  for 
ther  White  House,"  he  was  wont  to  say.  "No,  sir,  I 
wouldn't  be  President  fer  nothin'!" 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

"That's  lucky,"  Orin  Snyder  was  apt  to  cut  in  here, 
"seein'  as  nobody  ain't  votin'  fer  yer." 

"No,"  Hedrick  would  continue,  undisturbed  by  the 
other's  derision;  "hit's  all  I  kin  do  ter  take  in  all 
what's  goin'  on  in  this  here  little  Draft,  an'  do  hit 
right,  an'  I  know  dog-goned  well  I  couldn't  do  ther 
whole  United  States  jestice.  Why,  look  at  all  ther 
things  what  happens  here  jest  in  one  week.  Look  at 
week  befor'  last  —  first  thing  Monday  mornin'  Cape 
Johnson  come  in  feelin'  powerful  good  an'  says  ther's  a 
baby  come  ter  their  house;  an'  seein'  hit's  a  boy  an' 
his  first  one,  I  says  reckon  he  knowed  \vho'd  be  President 
in  erbout  forty  years  from  now.  Then  Wednesday 
word  come  er  ther  shootin'  scrap  up  at  Whitcomb's 
camp.  Thursday  ole  Mis'  Woods  died,  an'  Friday 
mornin'  Adrian  Blair  an'  Joe  Snyder  had  high  words 
an'  come  pretty  nigh  ter  fightin'  right  here  in  ther  store. 
Saturday  erlong  come  er  drummer  feller  an'  tried  ter 
sell  me  er  whole  chanst  er  no-'count  goods,  an'  I 
hedn't  more'n  jest  Sunday  ter  talk  over  all  these  things 
when  here  come  Monday  mornin'  ergin  an'  er  whole 
trail  er  new  things  er  goin'  on.  An'  ef  so  much  hap 
pens  jest  right  eround  here,  hit  stands  ter  reason  that 
ther's  mo'  still  erhappenin'  in  all  ther  United  States, 
what  ther  President  has  ter  see  ter,  an'  reckon  that's 
er  job  would  run  me  plum  distracted.  No,  sir!  give 
me  er  cross-roads  store  ev'ry  time,  an'  any  ole  feller 
kin  have  ther  White  House." 

In  truth,  with  such  abundant  opportunity  for  the 
study  of  life,  and  sufficient  for  a  livelihood,  what  more 

136 


A  HAPPY  MAN 

could  any  man  desire?  Certainly  George  Hedrick 
wished  for  nothing  further.  Winter  found  him  in 
doors,  meeting  all  comers  at  the  checker-board;  and 
summer  saw  him  seated  on  his  little  porch  looking  at 
the  face  of  Drupe  Mountain,  and  giving  cheerful 
greeting  to  the  various  neighbours  who  meandered  up 
and  down  the  main  road  of  the  Draft,  and  the  one 
that  came  from  Clear  Creek  and  ran  up  to  the  farms 
on  top  of  Drupe;  the  two  cutting  across  each  other  at 
his  store. 

Fortunately  for  Hedrick,  almost  directly  in  front  of 
his  shop  the  Jumping  Creek,  on  one  of  its  many  erratic 
dives  from  one  side  of  the  valley  to  the  other,  flows  at 
this  spot  across  the  county  road,  making  thereby  a 
sweet  and  shady  little  ford  overhung  by  the  big  branches 
of  a  willow  tree;  through  which  ford  few  travellers 
passed  without  letting  their  horses'  heads  down  for  a 
drink.  And  while  the  horses  refreshed  their  thirsty 
throats,  the  storekeeper,  in  the  few  minutes'  pause, 
refreshed  their  drivers  with  the  latest  tid-bits  of  shouted 
news.  And  when  there  chanced  hot,  rainless  summers 
which  dried  the  Jumping  Creek  to  a  mere  undrinkable 
thread  of  water,  so  that  teams  and  equestrians  alike 
dashed  through  it  without  stopping,  George  Hedrick's 
life  held  its  nearest  approach  to  tragedy,  and  his  usual 
genial  nature  was  stung  almost  to  pessimism. 

But  the  spring  that  David  Cree  courted  Mary  Reddin 
up  by  the  old  Hull  burying-ground  had  had  its  full 
store  of  quickening  rain  storms,  and  the  Jumping 
Creek  splashed  and  tumbled  over  its  pebbly  bed  with 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

almost  the  full  gurgle  of  winter;  and  it  was  beyond 
most  human  nature  to  pass  through  its  dancing  waters 
without  at  least  a  moment's  pause  in  the  translucent 
coolness.  And  more  than  one  child  from  near-by 
farms  came  down,  surreptitiously  avoiding  mother  eyes, 
to  dip  their  bare  legs  into  the  water,  and  dig  eager 
toes  into  its  delicious  oozy  sand  beds.  In  witness  of 
the  truth  whereof,  behold  Master  Billy  Tompkins,  with 
forefinger  hooked  in  either  trouser  leg  to  hold  them 
out  of  harm's  way,  wading  fearlessly  into  the  shining 
depths.  It  was  still  that  corn-planting  week  in  May, 
and  the  weather  yet  held  the  same  sweet  serenity  of 
clearness  that  had  shone  so  propitiously  upon  Robert 
Reddin's  planting  and  upon  David  Cree's  courting; 
weather  that  every  farmer  blessed  upon  arising,  and 
was  loth  to  have  the  darkness  snatch  from  him  at  eve. 

"There's  allers  so  much  use  fer  pretty  days  in  May," 
Robert  Reddin  was  wont  to  say,  "that  seems  like  er 
shame  ter  hev  ther  nights  come  erlong  an'  cut  'em  in 
two  jest  like  they  wa'n't  no  mo'  use'  an  ef  they  was 
winter  days." 

As  he  waded  deeper  into  the  Jumping  Creek  the 
fresh  water  rippled  whitely  about  Billy's  ankles,  then 
about  his  calves,  and  then  it  reached  laughingly  for 
his  knees.  It  was  cold  and  it  was  strong,  and  on  the 
slippery  stones  there  was  a  fearsome  chance  of  sitting 
abruptly  down,  waist  deep  in  its  chill  translucency; 
but  a  bluebird  sang  in  the  willow  overhead,  and  it  was 
spring,  and  the  sky  flashed  him  gay  encouragement 
and  daring,  and  just  a  few  steps  more,  through  the 

138 


A  HAPPY  MAN 

deepest  part,  and  he  would  be  over  there  in  that  sandy 
still  reach  where  were  flat  stones  in  the  soft  bottom, 
under  which  were  perhaps  —  O  joy  and  excitement! 
—  crayfishes !  Billy  took  a  step  or  two  more ;  in 
spite  of  all  his  best  efforts  his  trousers  now  dipped 
gently  into  the  water  —  but  just  a  few  steps  further  — 
just  a  few  —  Alas!  at  this  expectant  moment  the  im 
perative  tones  of  his  older  sister  floated  over  to  him 
from  the  Tompkins  homestead. 

"Billy!  Aw  Bil-lee!"  Billy  paused  a  moment  in 
consideration  —  did  that  long  overhanging  sweep  of 
the  willow  branch  hide  him  from  the  hou3e  ?  or  did  it 
not? 

"Bil-lee!"  again  the  voice  floated  over,  and  though 
it  only  called  his  name,  this  time  there  was  in  it  a  cer 
tain  note  of  intensity  which  to  Billy's  trained  ear  and 
alert  conscience  spoke  volumes.  To  them  it  said, 
with  unmistakable  clearness  —  "  Yer  needn't  ter  think 
I  don't  see  yer  down  there  er  paddling  in  that  water"; 
therefore  he  decided  to  parley. 

"What  yer  want?"  he  cried  back. 

"  Mammy-says-fer-you-ter-quit-playin  '-in-that-  water 
an'-come-on-here-an'-git-her-some-chips,"  the  voice 
answered  in  one  breath,  with  a  rising  climax. 

Billy  looked  longingly  at  the  flat  stones  —  the  happy 
homes  of  the  crayfishes  —  so  nearly  now  within  reach 
—  so  near.  Then  he  braced  himself  for  a  daring 
retort. 

"Tell  her  ter  wait,"  he  shouted. 

There  was  a  short  pause  this  time  while  the  sister 


THE   SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

at  the  house  communicated  this  astonishing  reply  to 
higher  authority  and  received  fresh  instruction;  then 
again  the  voice  came  over  to  him. 

"She-says-s/^'//-2£'af/-on-ye!"  it  called. 

The  mere  words  themselves  seemed  to  promise  un 
limited  patience  on  the  maternal  part,  then  why  should 
the  hearing  of  them  cause  Billy  so  instantly  to  abandon 
all  further  pursuit  of  the  wily  crayfish,  and  splashing 
hastily  out  of  the  creek  and  up  the  bank,  to  streak 
away  along  the  road  toward  home  at  such  an  agitated 
and  obediently  quick  pace?  George  Hedrick,  inter 
ested  spectator  of  the  whole  scene  from  his  porch, 
drove  his  hands  deeper  into  his  pockets,  and  tilting 
his  chair  back  more  securely  against  the  wall  chuckled 
softly,  "An'  reckon  ef  Mis'  Tompkins  hed  sent  word 
ter  me  thet  she'd  wait  on  me,  that  erway,  I  wouldn't 
er  kep'  her  waitin'  much  longer  neither,"  he  remarked 
to  Lloyd  Johnson. 

"Howdy,  Mis'  Cooper,  howdy,"  he  continued 
politely  to  Aleck  Cooper's  wife,  as  she  stepped  wearily 
up  on  to  the  porch,  a  basket  of  eggs  on  either  arm,  and 
a  general  appearance  of  moist  fatigue  about  her. 
Without  a  word  she  sank  into  the  chair  the  storekeeper 
pushed  forward,  and  removing  her  black  slatted  sun- 
bonnet  fanned  herself  for  several  moments  in  silence 
while  she  recovered  her  breath  in  long  gasps.  She 
was  a  fat  woman,  with  a  complaining,  somewhat 
plaintive  air  toward  the  world  in  general,  as  though 
she  blamed  her  neighbours  for  her  corpulent  dis 
comfort. 

140 


A  HAPPY  MAN 

"Ain't  hit  awful  warm?"  she  flashed  upon  George 
Hedrick  at  length,  laying  the  blame  for  the  heat  with 
him. 

"  'Tis  so  —  'tis  so,"  he  answered,  his  tranquillity  un 
ruffled  even  by  having  the  responsibility  of  the  weather 
laid  at  his  door.  Again  silence  fell  between  the  three. 
It  was  hot,  very  hot  for  May,  and  in  spite  of  the  clear 
ness  of  the  sky  one  felt  the  languor  of  a  possible 
thunderstorm.  It  was  also  a  breathlessly  still  after 
noon  —  and  a  dull  one  too,  at  the  store,  for  the  reason 
that  most  of  the  Draft  people  were  busy  with  their 
crops.  The  storekeeper  thrust  his  hands  still  deeper 
into  his  pockets  and  whistled  an  idle  tune  between  his 
teeth.  He  did  not  feel  inspired  by  his  company  and 
was  somewhat  inclined  to  quarrel  with  a  fate  that 
could  for  the  moment  provide  nothing  more  inspiriting 
in  the  way  of  companionship  or  gossip.  Lloyd  John 
son,  sent  on  an  errand  by  his  wife,  had  dawdled  with 
him  for  the  last  two  hours,  the  first  quarter  of  which 
had  sufficed  for  Hedrick  to  wring  him  dry  of  what 
meagre  store  of  news  he  possessed.  Mrs.  Cooper's 
hoard  of  gossip,  if  she  possessed  any,  would  be  of  the 
grievance  variety,  and  Hedrick  shrank  from  tapping 
it  on  a  hot  afternoon.  It  was  therefore  with  a  feeling 
of  pleasant  anticipation  that  he  heard  the  soft  slip 
slop  of  a  pacing  horse  approaching  along  the  road. 

He  brought  his  chair  abruptly  down  to  its  four  legs 
and  leaned  eagerly  forward,  the  other  two  turning 
expectant  looks  also  in  the  direction  of  the  sound ;  and 
with  these  three  pairs  of  eyes  awaiting  him  Adrian 

141 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

Blair  swung  suddenly  into  view  around  the  turn, 
mounted  on  a  high-headed  black  horse,  whose  sleek 
sides  shimmered  in  the  May  sunshine.  Adrian  rode 
with  a  conscious  air  of  superiority,  fully  aware  of  the 
excitement  he  caused,  and  as  he  came  opposite  the 
store  a  dexterous  heel  made  the  horse  bound  spiritedly 
from  side  to  side  of  the  road,  with  arched  neck  and 
rippling  tail. 

Nothing  of  the  whole  performance  was  lost  upon 
the  storekeeper,  and  as  Adrian  called  a  greeting  to 
him,  he  rose  from  his  chair  and  sweeping  off  his  hat 
bowed  low  in  elaborate  sarcasm. 

The  other  waved  a  gracious  hand  in  reply. 

"Oh!  don't  mind  me,"  he  called  back  condescend 
ingly;  "I  was  er  poor  man  once  myself!"  and  dashing 
into  the  ford  he  sent  the  water  up  in  high  showers  of 
silver  spray,  and  without  pausing  to  drink  he  and  his 
horse  —  a  dazzling  spectacle  —  were  presently  lost 
around  the  next  bend  of  the  road. 

Hedrick  resumed  his  chair  a  trifle  crestfallen;  not 
that  the  magnificence  of  it  all  overawed  him,  but  he 
was  not  used  to  any  one  rising  so  quickly  and  so  suc 
cessfully  to  his  own  airy  persiflage. 

Fleeting  as  Adrian's  appearance  was  upon  the  scene, 
it  nevertheless  opened  the  sluice-gate  of  conversation. 

"  Now  I'd  liked  ter  know  where'd  he  git  that  horse  ?" 
Lloyd  Johnson  demanded,  with  keen  disapproval 
showing  in  his  lugubriously  lank  countenance. 

"He  brung  him  home  from  Randolph  County  when 
he  come  out  er  camp.  An'  I  heered  him  say  he  wouldn't 

142 


A  HAPPY  MAN 

take  three  hundred  dollars  ferhim,"  Hedrick  answered. 

"An  he  said  hit  'cause  he  knowed  mighty  well  he 
wouldn't  git  nobody  ter  pay  him  that  fer  him,"  he 
added. 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  hit  looks  right  fer  er  young  feller 
ter  be  idling  'round  all  day  keepin'  ther  road  hot  that 
erway,  when  ev'rybody  else  round's  pretty  nigh  drove 
ter  death  with  ther  plantin',5'  Johnson  continued  still 
with  disfavour. 

But  at  this  Mrs.  Cooper  whirled  suddenly  upon  him. 

"Well,  reckon  I  know  one  man  what  ain't  been  pretty 
nigh  drove  ter  death — not  fer  ther  last  two  hours,  any 
how,"  she  said  pointedly. 

Here,  however,  Hedrick  hastily  interposed,  turning 
the  conversation  into  safer  channels  —  for  long  ex 
perience  had  taught  him  to  scent  the  battle  from  afar. 

"  Reckon  Adrian  kin  erford  ter  do  some  galervantin'," 
he  said  pacifically,  "with  money  in  ther  bank,  an'  that 
house  er  his'n." 

"Wonder  is  he  thinkin'  er  gettin'  married?"  John 
son  speculated,  eager  to  seize  on  anything  which 
diverted  the  conversation  from  himself. 

"Wonder  would  he  go  buildin'  er  nest  ef  he  wa'n't?" 
Hedrick  returned  scornfully. 

"Well,  he  certainly  is  er  terrible  young  feller," 
Johnson  went  on,  with  a  solemn  shake  of  his  head. 
"  I  ain't  never  seen  his  beat  ter  fight.  Der  yer  recollect 
ther  time  him  an'  Cape  had  ther  bresh?" 

"Reckon  I  do,"  said  Hedrick.  "Adrian  was  mad 
that  time  sure  'nough.  Recollec'  he  said  he'd  take  er 

143 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

string  an'  tie  his  right  hand  ter  his  lef  foot  an'  whip 
ther  whole  shee-bang  —  an'  I  recollect  er  nother  time 
too,  when  Adrian  drove  me  an'  some  other  fellers  over 
ter  Clear  Creek  ter  go  himtin'  with  ther  Saunders  boys 
over  in  there.  Hit  was  a  dark  night  an'  Adrian  was 
drivin'  thet  pair  er  colts  he  used  ter  hev',  an'  they  wa'n't 
mo'n  jest  broke  then  an'd  run  ef  you'd  look  at  'em, 
an'  first  one  an'  then  ther  other  was  up  on  his  hind 
legs  all  ther  way,  an'  ef  they  ever  did  happen  ter  hev 
mo'n  four  feet  between  'em  on  ther  groun'  at  ther 
same  time,  Ade,  he'd  pull  out  his  pistol  an'  fire  hit  off 
—  an'  maybe  we'd  git  stopped  by  ther  end  er  ther  next 
mile,  an'  maybe  we  wouldn't.  Hit's  er  right  smart 
piece  over  ter  Clear  Creek,  an'  I  ain't  usually  fond  er 
walkin',  but  I  footed  it  home  next  mornin'.  Per  I 
said  ter  myself  ef  ther  Lord'd  jest  let  me  git  safe  out 
er  that  waggon  that  one  time,  I  wouldn't  never  go 
temptin'  Him  ergin  by  drivin'  with  Adrian  Blair,"  and 
he  drew  a  long  breath  of  satisfaction  in  his  present 
safety  —  and  added,  "That  sort  er  recklessness  don't 
reely  afford  me  no  kinder  pleasure." 

"  Reckon  Adrian  don't  know  what  it  is  ter  be  erf  raid," 
Johnson  said  speculatively. 

"Reckon  he  don't,"  the  other  assented.  "An'  hit's 
er  mighty  nice  thing  fer  yerself  ter  feel  that  erway,  but 
hit  makes  hit  right  hard  for  yer  friends  ef  they  hev  ter 
keep  up  with  you." 

"You  all  ain't  fair  ter  Adrian,"  Mrs.  Cooper  broke 
in  here  abruptly,  almost  angrily;  and  for  a  moment  her 
real  self  seemed  lifted  out  of  her  usual  peevish  challenge. 

144 


A  HAPPY  MAN 

"I  reckon  ther's  one  person  in  this  Draft  that's  power 
ful  glad  Adrian  Blair  ain't  erfraid  er  nothin'  —  an'  that 
person's  me,"  she  said.  "You  recollect  thet  December 
ther  creek  was  up  so  high  an'  ther  come  er  freeze  an' 
froze  hit  all  erlong  ther  edges?" 

"I  recollect,"  the  storekeeper  answered,  "hit  was 
ther  same  time  thet  Ed  Huston  an'  'Melia  Rivers  got 
married,  an'  ther  ford  was  up  so  here  at  the  store,  that 
when  Brother  Braxton  come  up  from  Linden  ter  marry 
'em,  he  was  feard  to  come  over  and  hed  ter  jest  nater- 
ally  marry  'em  across  ther  water,  him  standin'  on  one 
side  er  ther  creek  shoutin'  out  er  his  little  book  ter  'em 
an'  they  hollerin'  back  at  him  from  tother.  I  recollect 
'Melia  was  mad,  'cause  she  had  ter  kneel  down  right 
spang  in  ther  middle  er  ther  road,  an'  though  they  did 
spread  er  quilt  down,  ther  ground  was  so  powerful 
damp  and  oozy-like  ther  water  soaked  right  up  through 
hit  and  made  two  spots  on  her  dress  jest  where  her 
knees  come,  so's  she  couldn't  never  wear  hit  ergin 
'cept  ter  prayer  meetin',  an'  she'd  always  'lowed  any 
how  ter  be  merried  by  ther  Presbyterian  preacher  so's 
her  dress  wouldn't  git  tumbled,  cause  they  don't  make 
yer  kneel  down  ertall;  but  ther  water  was  up  so  high 
she  an'  Ed  couldn't  git  into  Wayside." 

"Yes,  thet  was  ther  time,"  the  woman  assented,  "  an' 
hit  was  jest  afterwards  thet  thet  powerful  cold  spell 
come  an'  froze  everything  up;  an'  jest  erbout  thet  time 
my  baby  was  took  with  ther  pneumony.  Ther  ford 
up  near  us  was  ther  highest  in  ther  Draft,  all  froze  up 
at  ther  edges,  an'  powerful  swift  in  ther  middle.  We 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

hollered  acrost  ter  Orin  Snyder's  folks  an'  got  some  er 
them  ter  go  down  ter  Linden  fer  ther  doctor;  but  when 
he  got  up  es  fer  es  our  ford  he  couldn't  git  his  horse  ter 
go  on  ther  ice  ter  come  ercrost,  cause  ther  ice'd  break 
es  soon  es  er  horse'd  git  er  little  piece  out  on  hit.  An' 
I  jest  thought  my  baby  was  ergoin'  ter  die  with  the 
doctor  over  there  acrost  ther  creek  jest  out  er  reach. 
But  'bout  thet  time,  when  I  was  ready  ter  give  up, 
Adrian  Blair,  he  come  erlong  on  thet  powerful  grey 
horse  er  his  —  hit  was  one  er  them  colts  you  spoke  of 
—  an'  when  he  heered  what  ther  trouble  was,  he  cut 
him  er  big  withe  an'  rode  thet  horse  er  his  right  out  on 
ther  ice,  an'  broke  er  way  clear  so's  ther  doctor's  horse 
cou^d  foller.  An'  I  reckon  there  was  mo'  'n  one  er  us 
thought  hit  was  Adrian's  las'  day  when  we  seed  thet 
big  horse  erplungin'  an'  rearin'  round  an'  tryin'  ter 
break  back  ter  shore  in  all  thet  ice  an'  water,  but 
Adrian  jest  looked  like  he  was  eiijoyin'  hisself,  an'  I 
ain't  never  fergot  hit,  an'  what's  mo'  I  say  whoever 
Adrian  does  marry'll  git  er  man  fer  er  husband  what 
kin  look  after  her,  an'  not  jest  er  hog  with  er  right  nice 
sty."  She  ended  abruptly  as  she  had  begun,  and  shut 
ting  her  lips  into  a  straight  defiant  line  looked  at  the 
two  men,  daring  them  to  contradict  her  statement. 

"Well  I  reckon  yer  erbout  right,"  the  storekeeper 
admitted.  "Fer  all  his  don't-keer  reckless  ways 
Adrian's  get  er  mighty  kind  heart  in  him." 

"That's  so,"  said  Johnson,  following  as  usual  the 
majority.  And  as  they  both  seemed  disposed  to  agree 
with  her,  Mrs.  Cooper  presently  took  her  fierce  eyes 

146 


A  HAPPY  MAN 

from  them,  and  shaking  out  her  dress  rose  to  her 
feet. 

"I'm  cooled  off  now,"  she  said,  "an'  reckon  I'll  do 
my  tradin',"  and  taking  up  her  baskets  of  eggs  she 
entered  the  cool  gloom  of  the  little  store  with  all  its 
heterogeneous  collection  of  wares,  followed  by  Hedrick. 


147 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   SHADOW 

MRS.  COOPER'S  trading  at  length  conducted  to  a 
termination  satisfactory  to  both  parties  she  once  more 
settled  her  sunbonnet  on  her  tightly  drawn  hair,  and 
with  a  "Good  evenin'  ter  yer  all"  stepped  heavily  off 
the  porch  and  turned  her  face  homeward,  already  be 
ginning  to  pant  slightly  in  fat  anticipation  of  the  first 
hill.  Lloyd  Johnson  sighed  and  turned  a  dubious 
gaze  toward  the  declining  sun,  shutting  one  pale  blue 
eye,  and  cocking  his  head  sideways  to  do  so. 

"Reckon  I  ort  ter  be  travelling  too,"  he  said  reluc 
tantly. 

"Oh!  no,  set  erwhile,"  Hedrick  urged  with  tolerant 
politeness,  though  it  must  be  admitted  the  politeness 
was  somewhat  perfunctory,  for  now  that  the  sun  sloped 
so  low  to  the  west,  there  was  chance  of  more  congenial 
and  exciting  companionship  in  the  shape  of  other 
neighbours  drifting  down  to  the  store  for  a  half-hour's 
crack  at  the  tail  of  the  day.  Lloyd,  however,  ignored 
the  perfunctoriness,  and  caught  eagerly  at  the  invitation. 

"Well,  reckon  I  kin  spare  er  little  time  longer,"  he 
said,  again  relaxing  to  his  settled  inertia. 

148 


THE  SHADOW 

Once  more  silence  fell  between  the  two  and  they  sat 
staring  up  the  road,  as  one  might  stare  out  to  sea  for  a 
long  expected  sail. 

There  is  a  theory  that  desire  begets  realization.  Be 
that  as  it  may,  Lloyd  Johnson  and  George  Hedrick's 
yearning  eyes  were  presently  rewarded  by  the  sight  of 
Orin  Snyder's  large  frame  swinging  into  view. 

"Well,  ef  here  don't  come  ole  Orin,"  Lloyd  an 
nounced,  as  though  heralding  the  approach  of  a  long- 
lost  brother.  Hedrick's  face  also  lighted  with 
anticipation,  and  when  Orin  stepped  up  onto  the 
porch  he  greeted  him  with  extreme  suavity. 

"  Good  evenin',  Mr.  Snyder!"hesaid,  with  an  affable 
wave  of  two  fingers  toward  his  hat  which  sat  jauntily 
on  the  back  of  his  head. 

"Good  evenin',  Mr.  Hedrick,"  the  other  returned, 
bowing  with  equal  urbanity.  Hedrick  eyed  him  a 
moment  longer,  then  "Hello,  Orin!"  he  said. 

"Hello,  George!"  Snyder  responded;  and  having 
thus,  as  it  were,  established  each  other's  official  and 
every-day  identity,  the  two  dropped  back  into  their 
usual  parlance. 

"An'  what's  ther  news  up  your  way?"  the  store 
keeper  inquired,  pushing  a  chair  forward  with  a  hos 
pitable  foot. 

"Ain't  none's  I  know  of,"  Synder  returned,  accept 
ing  the  chair  in  the  spirit  in  which  it  was  offered, 
"'cept  that  I  heered  ole  Marthy  Lamfire  was  took 
sick." 

"Is  that  er  fact?    Much  sick?" 
149 


THE  SOWING   OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

"No,  not  so  powerful,  jest  kinder  grunty  an'  ailin'; 
ther  women  folks  is  takin'  turns  erbout  stayin'  with 
her." 

"Well,  I'm  sorry  fer  ther  ole  woman,  an'  I  certainly 
don't  wish  her  no  harm,  but  she  ever  mo'  lastingly  giv' 
me  er  good  skeer  onct,"  Hedrick  said  reminiscently. 

"  How  was  that  ?"  Snyder  inquired  with  his  perennial 
interest  in  all  the  storekeeper's  anecdotes,  an  interest 
which  made  him  always  to  the  former  a  dear  and 
valued  companion.  Of  Lloyd  Johnson,  on  the  other 
hand,  Hedrick  was  wont  to  complain:  "That  he  didn't 
never  hev  nothin'  ter  say  hisself,  but  worse'n  that  .he 
never  'pcared  ter  be  'specially  interested  in  what  any 
other  feller  hed  ter  say." 

"Why,  hit  was  one  time  five  or  six  years  back,"  the 
storekeeper  began,  "I  come  by  her  house  in  ther  fall, 
an'  she  was  out  in  ther  yard  makin'  her  apple  butter. 
I  stopped  ter  git  me  er  drink  at  ther  well,  an'  someway 
in  lettin'  ther  bucket  down,  I  knocked  er  little  tin  pail 
er  butter  she  hed  hangin'  inside  ther  well  ter  keep  cool, 
off  hit's  nail,  an'  right  down  into  ther  water.  Well, 
with  that  she  jest  flew  mad  d'rectly,  an'  mos'  fo'  I 
could  ketch  my  breath  she  giv'  me  one  er  ther  com- 
pletest  cussin's  I  ever  did  hev." 

"An'  what  did  you  do?"  Snyder  inquired,  grinning. 

"Well,  it  allers  did  kinder  upset  me  an'  make  me 
sorter  nervous  an'  rattle-headed  ter  be  cussed,  an' 
reckon  fo'  I  thought  what  I  was  doin'  I  mus'  er  said 
somethin'  that  I  ortn't  ter  said  ter  er  lady,  fer  fo'  I 
could  er  said  Jack  Robinson  —  ef  I'd  er  wanted  ter, 

150 


THE  SHADOW 

which  I  didn't  —  here  she  come  at  me  ercrost  ther 
yard  with  ther  pole  she'd  bin  er  stirrin'  ther  apple 
butter  with.  Well,  I  reckon  most  any  fool  would  er 
hed  sense  ernough  ter  run,  but  someway  I  kinder  lost 
my  head,  an'  fo'  I  knowed  hit  I  was  er  skinning  up  er 
little  sugar  maple  tree,  with  her  er  plasterin'  my  legs 
with  hot  apple  butter  fo'  I  could  git  'em  drawed  up 
under  me  out  er  reach." 

Snyder  slapped  his  leg  and  roared. 
"I'd  er  liked  ter  er  seed  you  goin'  up  that  little  tree," 
he  said. 

George  grinned  somewhat  sheepishly  in  sympathy. 
"  I'd  er  liked  ter  er  seed  myself  ef  hit  hed  er  been  some 
body  else,"  he  said,  "but  seein'  hit  was  me,  hit  didn't 
give  me  no  amusement  at  ther  time." 

"An'  how  long  did  yer  stay  up  there?"  the  other 
inquired. 

"I  stayed  there  till,  fer  er  mercy,  her  ole  cow  broke 
inter  her  cabbage  patch,  an'  while  she  went  ter  run  her 
out,  I  climbed  down  right  easy,  an'  took  out  down  ther 
holler.  An'  I  ain't  been  in  ther  Mossy  Run  since,  an* 
I  ain't  ergoin'  neither." 

"Who's  that  feller  comin'?"  Lloyd  Johnson  broke 
in,  suddenly  pointing  up  the  road.  The  other  two,  turn 
ing  their  eyes  in  the  same  direction,  beheld  a  slouched 
man  of  middle  age  coming  towards  them  at  an  uneven 
shuffle.  His  head  was  down  so  that  his  hat  brim  partly 
concealed  his  face,  and  what  did  appear  was  covered 
with  a  rank  growth  of  beard  of  a  streaked  greyish 
brown. 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

Hedrick  studied  him  a  moment,  "Looks  like  er 
stranger  ter  me,"  he  said  at  length. 

"I  know  who  he  is,"  Snyder  struck  in,  but  in  a 
lowered  voice  as  the  man  approached.  "He's  one  er 
ther  new  hands  Aleck  Whitcomb's  got  workin'  up  at 
ther  sawmill  at  ther  head  er  Drupe  Mountain.  I  seen 
him  an'  some  other  strange  fellers  Aleck  hed  jest  got 
in  when  I  went  up  there  er  week  er  so  ergo  ter  see 
erbout  gittin'  some  slabs." 

As  he  finished  his  explanation  the  stranger  arrived 
at  the  porch  steps.  Pausing,  he  gave  the  three  a  quick 
and  somewhat  furtive  glance  from  under  dropped  lids. 

"Good  evenin',"  he  said  in  general,  and  then  turn 
ing  to  the  storekeeper —  "Kin  I  git  er  plug  er  'Rosey 
Lee'  turbacker  here?"  he  inquired. 

Hedrick  scrutinized  him  in  silence  for  a  moment, 
then — "You  kin,"  he  responded.  "Step  inside,"  he 
continued,  rising  from  his  chair. 

The  man  obeyed,  and  Hedrick  followed  him  into 
the  shop.  Their  transaction  was  a  short  one,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  the  stranger  emerged,  and  nodding  once 
more  to  Snyder  and  Johnson  dropped  off  the  porch 
and  slouched  away  up  the  road  again. 

Snyder  eyed  his  departing  figure  with  keen  disfavour. 

"Hit's  surprisin'  what  er  heap  er  trash  er  sawmill 
will  bring  inter  er  place,"  he  grunted. 

"What  makes  yer  think  that  feller's  trash?"  Johnson 
inquired. 

"Don't  yer  reckon  I  know  trash  when  I  see  hit?" 
Orin  returned  pugnaciously. 

152 


THE  SHADOW 

While  the  other  paused  to  deliberate  a  sufficiently 
pacific  reply,  Hedrick  dawdled  out  to  the  porch  again 
and  settled  back  in  his  chair. 

"I  reckon  yer  know  trash  when  yer  see  hit  all  right, 
Orin,"  he  said;  "but  ther's  somethin'  else  yer  don't 
'pear  ter  know." 

"An'  what's  that?"  Snyder  demanded,  still  pugna 
ciously. 

Hedrick  drew  out  his  jack-knife  deliberately,  and 
leaning  forward  with  extreme  care  selected  a  clean 
sliver  from  the  broken  cover  of  an  opened  grocery  box, 
and  tilting  his  chair  back  against  the  wall  he  began 
sending  little  showers  of  yellow-white  shavings  down 
into  his  lap  and  off  onto  the  floor. 

"Was  either  er  yer  fellers  ever  out  in  ther  woods  by 
yerself,  erlistenin'  fer  somethin',  an'  did  yer  ever  hear 
er  man  come  runnin'?"  he  inquired.  "Hit's  not  like 
hearin'  dogs  er  a  varmint,"  he  went  on,  not  waiting 
for  a  reply.  "  There's  somethin'  happenin'  when  yer 
hear  er  man  running'  in  ther  woods,  an'  hit  most 
usually  means  trouble.  I  was  out  squirrel  huntin' 
onct  on  Hare  Hill,  an'  I  heered  er  man  runnin';  an' 
when  he  come  up  ter  me  hit  was  Aleck  Cooper,  an'  he 
went  by  like  er  streak,  jest  hollerin'  out  that  George 
Blair'd  cut  his  leg  off  in  ther  sawmill,  an'  he  was  going 
fer  ther  doctor."  He  paused  and  regarded  the  whittled 
stick  critically,  turning  it  about  in  his  hand;  the 
others  waiting  in  expectant  silence. 

"An'  I  wras  out  in  ther  woods  ergin  ernother  time," 
he  resumed.  "Only  this  time  I  happened  ter  be  er- 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

waitin'  on  er  deer  stan',  an'  all  at  onct  I  heered  some- 
thin'  comin'  runnin'  ergin  over  furninst  ther  next  ridge. 
An'  I'd  heered  ther  dogs  runnin'  in  Clear  Creek,  an' 
I  says  ter  myself  hit  must  be  er  deer.  An'  with  that  I 
commenced  ter  take  ther  buck  ague.  But  then  I 
listened  ergin,  an'  hit  didn't  run  like  er  deer,  an'  I  says, 
'No,  hit  can't  be',  an'  by  that  time  ther  runnin'  was 
right  close,  an'  all  at  once  I  knowed  hit  was  er  human. 
An'  I  jest  set  my  teeth  an'  listened,  fer  I  knowed  some- 
thin'  was  ther  matter  an'  I  was  skeered.  An'  I  tell 
yer,  fellers,  hit  wasn't  more'n  er  minute  'fore  here 
come  Dave  Cree  erbreakin'  through  ther  bresh,  his 
face  lookin'  like  he'd  seed  over  ther  fence  inter  ther 
next  world,  an'  er  hollerin'  that  Kip  Ryerson'd  shot 
his  Pappy.  I  tell  yer  that's  twict  I've  heered  er  man 
runnin'  in  ther  woods,  an'  hits'  er  thing  er  feller  don't 
fergit  in  er  hurry,"  he  wound  up. 

"Well,  reckon  I  remember  that  hunt's  well  es  you," 
Snyder  broke  in  jealously. 

Hedrick  closed  his  knife  with  a  snap,  and  tossed 
away  his  whittled  stick. 

"Reckon  yer  don't,  then,"  he  said;  "fer  ef  yer  did 
yer'd  know  who  that  feller  what's  jest  left  here  is." 

Snyder  looked  at  him  a  moment  as  though  some 
thing  were  coming  slowly  back  to  him,  then  with  an 
oath  he  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"Kip  Ryerson!"     he  cried. 

"That's  ther  feller,"  the  storekeeper  returned 
quietly. 

"Lord!"  said  Johnson. 


THE  SHADOW 

"An'  ter  think  er  few  years  an'  er  growed  beard 
would  make  me  fergit  his  ugly  face,"  Snyder  cried 
with  keen  self -scorn. 

"Lord!"  Johnson  ejaculated  again.  For  a  space 
silence  held  the  three,  as  they  searched  one  another's 
faces  in  question  as  the  fact  of  Ryerson's  return  came 
home  to  them  in  all  its  fulness  of  meaning.  At  length 
Johnson  broke  the  silence. 

"Wonder  does  Dave  know  he's  back?"  he  specu 
lated.  Hedrick  regarded  him  with  utter  contempt. 

"Did  Kip  erpear  ter  be  erlive  an'  well  when  he  was 
here  jest  now?"  he  demanded. 

"Er  course  he  did  —  what'd  you  suppose?"  the 
other  returned. 

"Then  I  reckon  Dave  don't  know  he's  back  —  an' 
what's  more,"  he  continued,  looking  at  Johnson 
pointedly,  "I  don't  see  no  cause  fer  no  one  ter  go  telling 
him." 

"Thought  he  was  dead  anyhow,"  Lloyd  complained. 

"Reckon  he  thought  'bout  when  Dave  growed  up 
was  er  good  time  fer  him  ter  go  West  an'  give  out  he 
was  dead,  or  he  might  stay  East  an'  be  dead  sure 
'nough."  Hedrick  retorted. 

"What  in  thunder  did  he  come  back  in  here  fer  —  er 
fool!"  said  Snyder. 

"Cause  he  kin  git  good  wages  over  in  here,  an' 
cause  he  thought  nobody'd  know  him,  I  reckon," 
the  storekeeper  returned. 

"Well,  I  don't  call  this  no  place  fer  him";  said  John 
son,  gloomily.  He  was  a  man  who  loved  the  even  tenor 


THE   SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

of  the  valley's  ways,  and  he  could  not  help  feeling  on 
this  occasion  that  if  David  discovered  Ryerson  and 
broke  the  peace  of  the  neighbourhood  by  killing  him, 
or  attempting  to  do  so,  it  would  make  everything  very 
unsettled  and  inconvenient  for  himself,  as  David's 
uncle-in-law. 

Hedrick  laughed  savagely.  "Yer  mighty  right,  this 
ain't  no  place  fer  him.  Hit's  jest  erbout  es  good  er 
place  fer  him  as  Hell  is  fer  er  powder  mill,"  he  said. 

"Wonder  will  Dave  lay  fer  him  when  he  knows?" 
Johnson  debated  still  with  feeble  peevishness. 

Again  Hedrick  regarded  him  with  extreme  contempt. 

"Es  I  recollect  that  hunt,"  he  said,  "Alderson  Cree 
died  with  Dave  er  promisin'  him  he  wouldn't  fergit. 
An'  reckon  we  all  know  what  it  was  he  was  goin'  ter 
remember." 

"Well,"  Orin  remarked,  "I  certainly  would  hate 
ter  see  Dave  git  hisself  inter  trouble  now,  after  all  ther 
scuffle  he's  hed,  an'  him  so  likely  too." 

"I  allers  did  think,"  Johnson  went  on,  "that  hit 
was  er  right  unthoughted  thing  er  Alderson  ter  make 
Dave  go  promisin'  hisself  inter  trouble  that  erway." 

"Well,  I  reckon  when  you've  jest  been  shot  in  ther 
back  by  er  feller,  yer  don't  allers  hev  time  ter  look  at 
things  from  every  pint,"  Hedrick  replied. 

"I  wonder  won't  ther  fellers  git  tergether  ergin  an' 
run  Kip  out?"  Orin  deliberated,  one  eye  cocked 
questioningly  on  Hedrick,  for  he  remembered  that  ten 
years  ago  Hedrick  had  been  chief  mover  in  the  "run 
ning  out"  of  Kip  Ryerson. 

156 


THE  SHADOW 

"Reckon  ther  fellers'll  think  this  time  that  Dave's 
old  ernough  ter  'tend  ter  his  own  business,"  Hedrick 
answered  pointedly,  and  Orin  drew  a  sigh  of  relief. 

Lloyd  Johnson  gathered  his  long  legs  under  him 
and  rose.  "I  must  be  travellin'  sure  'nough  now,"  he 
said,  "I  wouldn't  be  er  bit  surprised  ef  my  woman 
wa'n't  erwaitin'  supper  fer  this  very  package  er  sody." 

Hedrick  watched  his  departing  figure  disappear 
around  the  turn. 

"I  could  er  tole  him  his  wife  was  erwaitin'  fer  that 
there  sody  two  hours  ergo,"  he  said;  "but  I  didn't  do 
hit  cause  I  knowed  Mis'  Johnson'd  be  sure  ter  tell  him 
herself  when  he  got  back,  an'  do  hit  er  heap  sight 
better'n  I  could.  He's  been  er  settin'  here  fer  ther 
last  two  hours,  jest  er  looking'  at  ther  face  er  Drupe 
Mountain,  an'  spittin'  every  now  an'  then.  An'  reelly 
ther's  times  when  I  think  he's  er  fool  fer  want  er  sense." 

"He's  gone  home  lickerty-split  now  ter  tell  his  wife," 
Orin  said. 

"Well,  his  wife's  got  ther  sense  ter  hold  her  tongue 
an'  ter  make  him  hold  his'n.  She  was  er  Cree,  an' 
whatever  else  Crees  is  they  ain't  fools." 

"Cept  when  they  marries  fools,"  Snyder  interposed. 
"It  allers  beats  me  what  kind  er  men  sensible  women 
sometimes  marries." 

"Well,  hit's  jest  es  well  they  do,"  Hedrick  rejoined 
philosophically.  "Fer  ef  fools  jest  married  fools,  think 
what  er  all  fired  lot  er  little  fools  we'd  hev  ter  put  up 
with." 

"Well,  I'm  powerful  oneasy  fer  Dave,  but  settin' 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

here  won't  help  him  none,"  said  Snyder,  "an'  I've  got 
er  wife  myself  at  home,  an'  reckon  hit  'd  be  jest  es  well 
fer  me  not  ter  keep  her  waitin'  fer  supper  beyond  er 
certain  pint." 

Left  alone  on  his  deserted  porch,  with  the  evening 
closing  in  around  him,  and  mysterious  lights  gather 
ing  on  the  crest  of  Drupe  Mountain,  the  little  store 
keeper  still  sat  on,  whistling  a  faint  tune  which  was 
almost  lost  in  the  near-by  throaty  voice  of  a  tree  toad. 
Presently  his  hound  came  stiffly  up  on  to  the  porch  and 
stood  looking  wistfully  into  his  face. 

"Reckon  you  think  hit  was  time  you  an'  me  was 
thinkin'  erbout  our  supper  too,"  Hedrick  said,  answer 
ing  the  dog's  appealing  eyes.  "Well,  we  ain't  got 
no  wife  ter  keep  waitin'  so's  we  kin  jest  suit  our 
selves." 

He  put  out  one  hand  and  pulled  the  dog's  long, 
floppy  ears  gently. 

"I'd  hate  ter  see  Dave  Cree  git  hisself  into  trouble, 
Toby,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  taking  the  dog  into  his 
confidence.  "But  dunno's  there's  anything  I  kin  do 
ter  help  hit,  seein'  es  he's  er  growd  man  now  an'  not 
er  little  pitiful  boy  no  mo'.  Hit  don't  seem  ter  me, 
Toby,"  he  went  on,  "that  ef  ther  Lord'd  ever  saw  fit 
ter  give  me  er  child  that  I'd  ever  er  hated  any  other 
feller  ernough  ter  lay  sech  er  promise  on  my  son.  But 
I  dunno,"  he  paused  —  "I  reely  dunno,  when  yer  shot 
in  ther  back  hit  would  certainly  make  er  difference. 
I  ain't  never  had  er  son  an'  I  ain't  never  been  shot  in 
ther  back,  so's  I  ain't  got  what  you  might  call  experience, 

158 


THE   SHADOW 

an'  without  experience  no  one's  got  er  right  ter  judge 
ernother  feller." 

He  sat  on  a  little  longer  in  the  gathering  dusk,  the 
dog  between  his  knees,  both  enveloped  in  the  coolness 
of  the  evening;  then  he  rose,  and  going  into  his  little 
back  room  started  the  fire  for  his  evening  meal.  There 
he  found  his  stove  door  had  developed  an  irritating 
trick  of  flying  persistently  open,  and  in  kicking  it 
violently  shut  every  time  it  opened  —  which  it  obligingly 
continued  to  do  —  he  gained  some  little  relief  from  his 
kind-hearted  perplexity  over  David  Cree's  future. 


CHAPTER  XI 

ANOTHER   CORN-FIELD 

THE  planting  of  corn  on  a  bright  day  with  plenty  of 
companions  to  help,  and  to  shout  gay  remarks  to,  and 
with  the  prospect  of  a  good  supper  just  at  sundown  to 
meet  the  whetted  appetite,  is  a  gay  and  an  altogether 
delightful  task,  comprising  an  easy  division  of  labour, 
in  which  no  one  is  too  hard  worked,  yet  filled  with  a 
sufficiency  of  toil  so  that  each  of  the  labourers  at  sunset 
may  have  a  satisfied  feeling  of  self -congratulation  over 
energy  put  forth  and,  as  a  result,  a  good  day's  work 
gloriously  accomplished. 

Such  a  day  of  happy  corn-planting  was  Robert 
Reddin's;  but  Ellen  Daw's  was  a  different  matter. 
There  one  lonesome  girl  plodded  over  the  ground  by 
herself,  toilsomely  planting  one  wearily  long  furrow 
after  another;  and  then  returning  to  her  old  horse  — 
who  waited  patiently  by  the  furrow  last  covered  —  she 
grasped  the  plough  handles  and  again  started  on  her 
difficult  trip  across  the  field,  arduously  covering  what 
she  had  dropped. 

Ellen  Daw's  corn-field  was  not  a  large  one,  in  fact  it 
was  scarcely  half  the  size  of  Robert  Reddin's;  but  it 
seemed  a  large,  a  painfully,  impossibly,  large,  place 
for  one  girl  to  go  over  all  alone. 

1 60 


ANOTHER  CORN-FIELD 

She  paused  every  now  and  again  in  the  centre  of  it, 
to  look  about  her  and  measure  the  unplanted  ground 
ahead;  and  each  time  she  did  so  she  felt  as  though  she 
and  the  old  horse  —  the  only  other  living  thing  to  be 
seen  —  had  grown  smaller  and  less  able  to  accomplish 
anything,  and  the  field  bigger  and  rougher  and  more 
forbidding;  and  each  time,  too,  the  enormous  blue  arch 
of  the  sky  seemed  more  than  ever  overpowering  and 
ominously  vast. 

It  was  the  first  year  that  so  much  of  the  burden  of 
the  spring  planting  had  fallen  upon  her.  Silas  Daw 
had  never  before  been  so  disabled  by  rheumatism  that 
he  could  not  do  at  least  some  of  the  ploughing  f  but  this 
year  he  could  only  get  about  a  little,  with  the  aid  of 
two  sticks;  therefore  Ellen  faced  the  heavy  problem  of 
seed-time  alone. 

She  had  managed  to  hire  help  for  the  first  ploughing 
but  afterwards  the  laying  off,  the  dropping,  and  cover 
ing,  all  fell  to  her  to  do. 

This  was  the  second  day  of  her  planting  and  she  had 
been  at  it  since  early  morning,  with  only  a  little  space 
out  at  noon,  when  her  dinner  had  been  meagre  and 
unsatisfactory,  and  when  most  of  her  time  had  been 
taken  up  attending  to  the  old  horse's  feeding.  It  was 
drawing  now  towards  three  o'clock  —  the  hottest  part 
of  the  day,  when  the  field  gave  up  dazzling  waves  of 
heat,  and  when  the  heart  of  the  world  seemed  to  have 
stopped  beating  in  very  exhaustion,  and  still  an  op 
pressively  wide  stretch  lay  unplanted  before  her. 

Ellen  felt  as  though  she  had  been  turned  into  a  bit 
161 


THE  SOWING   OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

of  dumb  machinery  to  go  endlessly  up  and  down  those 
long  furrows.  Occasionally  she  took  off  her  sun- 
bonnet,  and  pausing  fanned  herself  with  it,  and  when 
she  did  so  the  hot  earth  before  her  dazed  eyes  seemed 
jumping  up  at  her;  and  afterwards  the  going  on  again 
was  worse  than  before,  for  each  little  stop  seemed  to 
put  the  aching  mechanism  of  her  body  more  and  more 
out  of  order. 

At  length,  stumbling  back  across  the  field  to  start  her 
plough  again,  she  felt  herself  growing  suddenly  giddy 
and  strangely  faint.  She  paused  by  one  of  the  fence 
corners,  stretching  out  her  hands  to  its  grey  rails  for 
support,  for  waves  of  dizziness  were  engulfing  her, 
and  the  light  was  black  before  her  eyes,  with  flashing 
half  moons  of  whiteness  swirling  across  it. 

"I  got  ter  rest  er  little  spell — jest  er  little,"  she 
pleaded  whisperingly  to  herself,  "I  got  ter  rest.  I  don't 
keer  ef  I  never  git  this  ole  field  done.  I  don't  keer  ef 
we  all  starve.  I'd  ruther  starve'n  be  so  tired  anyhow, 
I  believe." 

Slowly  she  sank  down  on  to  the  pie-shaped  wedge  of 
earth  in  the  fence  corner.  It  was  deliciously  shady 
there,  and  little  flowers  were  about  in  tiny  clumps. 

"O  Lord!"  Ellen  murmured  as  the  restful  earth 
received  her.  "  O  Lord!  ain't  hit  good  ter  set  down  jest 
fer  er  spell?" 

She  put  her  sunbonnet  against  the  rails  and  let  her 
head  fall  back  on  that  for  a  pillow1.  Not  a  very  com 
fortable  position,  perhaps,  but  she  was  so  exhausted 
that  any  position  of  rest  seemed  good. 

162 


ANOTHER   CORN-FIELD 

"So  tired  —  so  tired!"  she  breathed.  "I'm  er 
goin'  ter  take  er  rest  ef  I  die  fer  hit." 

She  snuggled  herself  a  little  further  into  the  fence 
corner,  drawing  long,  happy  breaths  of  relief.  What  a 
delightfully  cool  little  spot  it  was  after  the  hot  field, 
and  how  quiet !  It  was  a  haven  of  rest ;  all  the  more 
pleasant  because  she  well  knew  she  could  but  ill  afford 
to  snatch  even  these  few  moments  to  enjoy  its  sweet 
repose. 

But  what  is  more  heaven-sent  than  five  minutes  of 
stolen  respite  for  tired  limbs  ? 

"I  don't  keer,I  don't  keer,"  she  whispered  in  defiance, 
then  smiled  softly  at  the  thought  that  the  next  few 
minutes  were  her  very  own,  anyway,  out  of  all  the  long 
past,  and  probably  future,  years  of  insistent  labour. 
Her  body  relaxed  contentedly,  and  all  at  once,  though 
she  had  only  meant  to  rest  for  a  few  minutes,  she  was 
profoundly  asleep. 

In  the  hot  sunshine  the  upturned  ground  lay  as  be 
fore,  silently  expectant  of  its  seed;  and  the  old  horse 
across  the  furrows  still  stood  patiently  awaiting  the 
command  to  go  on,  the  plough  at  her  heels,  and  her  long 
tail  switching  indolently  at  the  flies. 

Ten  minutes,  fifteen,  twenty,  drifted  over  the  moun 
tain-top  and  the  sleeping  girl.  At  length  the  old 
horse  raised  one  foot  tentatively,  then  another;  then 
she  took  a  few  uncertain  steps.  Nothing  happened. 
The  plough  dragged  heavily  behind  her  with  a  tell-tale 
clank,  but  still  no  one  shouted  at  her  to  stop.  She 
paused  again  with  back-pricked  ears,  nervously  await- 

163 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

ing  the  first  word  of  angry  remonstrance  to  her  progress. 
As  a  colt  Silas  Daw  had  broken  her  to  harness;  and  he 
had  done  so  with  such  a  lavishment  of  hard  beatings 
and  of  oaths  that  the  mare  never  forgot  it,  and  though 
now  her  coltish  days  were  gone  very  far  into  the  past, 
and  of  late  Ellen  had  been  her  sole  driver,  she  still 
lived  in  perpetual  dread  of  provoking  that  terrible  un 
locked  for  rain  of  blows  and  oaths.  Therefore  her 
runaway  progress  across  the  field  was  a  slow  one, 
broken  by  frequent  pauses  to  listen  with  timidly  appre 
hensive  ears. 

Just  a  little  distance  off  was  a  low  bank,  green 
with  juicy  spring  things  and  wild  grass.  Slowly  and 
cautiously  the  old  mare  clanked  across  the  field, 
making  for  this  succulent  feast,  and  at  length  arriving 
at  it,  after  one  warm  inquiring  breath,  which  made 
the  poor  little  doomed  things  shiver  all  over,  she 
plunged  her  eager  nose  into  the  inviting  greenness, 
and  again  —  except  for  her  contented  munching  —  all 
was  quiet  on  the  mountain-top. 

Ellen  in  her  fence  corner  slept  on  as  peacefully  as 
though  the  fullness  of  the  earth  was  hers  to  take  if  she 
but  stretched  out  her  hand  for  it,  instead  of  just  the 
scantiest  livelihood,  and  that  only  procurable  through 
perpetual  labour. 

Her  head  thrown  back  against  the  fence  showed  the 
pretty  youthful  curve  of  her  throat  under  her  chin; 
her  face  had  settled  softly  into  restful  lines,  and  for 
the  moment  the  girl  was  as  happy  as  any  princess ;  for, 
thank  heavens!  the  grace  of  sleep  is,  that  it  is  as  ob- 

164 


ANOTHER  CORN-FIELD 

tainable  by  the  poor  as  by  the  rich  —  fancy  if  it  were 
not  so,  and  had  to  be  purchased  like  food  and  clothing ! 

It  was  infinitely  quiet  and  far-away  up  there  on 
Drupe  Mountain.  The  girl  slept  on  and  the  old  horse 
munched  the  torn  grasses  with  keen  relish,  and  over 
all  brooded  a  feeling  of  weary  peace. 

But  presently  across  that  hushed  tranquillity  there 
struck  a  whistle,  gay,  insistent,  and  full  of  life.  Occa 
sionally  it  followed  the  air  of  first  one  song  and  then 
another  for  a  few  careless  bars,  but  for  the  most  part 
it  meandered  on  tuneless  except  for  the  radiant  tune 
of  sunshine  and  spring  days.  From  low  blue  notes 
of  sweetness  it  went  up  and  up,  soaring  spirally  to  tran 
scendent  heights  of  piercing  shrillness,  to  be  lost  in 
silence  and  then  begin  all  over  again  on  the  blue  notes. 

The  old  horse  stopped  eating  and  paused  in  guilty 
expectancy. 

The  whistle  wove  itself  like  a  bright  streak  of  light 
through  Ellen's  dreams,  and  she  thought  she  saw 
David  Cree  go  whistling  down  a  little  woody  path,  all 
flower  lit,  to  Mary  Reddin,  who  stood  at  the  end  of  it, 
in  a  glory  of  sunshine,  and  waved  her  hand  to  him, 
laughing,  with  all  her  gay  mockery  of  manner. 

The  sound  was  very  close  now,  but  save  for  weaving 
itself  into  her  dreams  it  did  not  disturb  Ellen's  sleep, 
and  all  at  once  it  ceased  abruptly  as  Adrian  Blair  — 
the  whistler  —  emerged  from  the  woods  and  looked 
across  the  empty  corn-field  in  surprise, 

His  gaze  rested  first  upon  the  old  mare,  and  guessing 
easily  enough,  from  her  air  of  nervous  apprehension, 

165 


THE   SOWING   OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

that  she  was  out  of  bounds,  he  was  just  on  the  point 
of  shouting  "Ha-a  you!"  at  her  severely,  when  his 
eye  suddenly  fell  upon  Ellen  Daw's  sleeping  figure,  as 
glimpsed  between  the  fence  rails.  Silently  he  crept 
down  the  fence  row  until  he  stood  at  her  corner  and 
could  peep  over  at  her.  The  girl  slept  in  an  absolute 
abandonment  of  exhaustion,  her  sunbonnet  fallen  on 
the  grass  beside  her,  and  her  bag  of  seed  corn  spilling 
out  its  yellow  grains  close  by. 

Adrian  Blair,  a  stalwart  young  fellow  in  his  prime 
of  youth  and  strength,  who  scarcely  knew  what  it  was 
to  be  utterly  weary,  looked  at  her  for  a  few  moments, 
taking  in  the  whole  scene;  then  he  murmured  softly 
to  himself,  "Po'  little  thing,  she's  clean  beat  out." 

For  a  little  space  longer  he  gazed,  and  then  silently 
he  climbed  over  the  fence,  and  with  extreme  caution 
reached  slowly  for  the  bag  of  corn.  He  had  it  firmly 
by  the  neck,  and  was  about  to  heave  it  up  to  his  arm, 
when  Ellen  stirred  slightly  and  muttered  inarticulately 
in  her  sleep.  Adrian  paused  as  though  he  had  been 
caught  stealing,  and  his  good-humoured,  somewhat 
comical  face  took  on  a  look  of  droll  apprehension,  as 
he  watched  her  breathlessly. 

But  Ellen  did  not  open  her  eyes,  and  presently,  with 
a  few  heavy  sighs,  she  once  more  fled  down  the  shadowy 
aisles  of  deep  sleep.  With  a  silent  mirthful  chuckle  of 
relief,  Adrian  caught  up  the  bag  and,  stepping  care 
fully,  made  his  way  across  to  the  mare,  and  righting 
the  plough,  and  turning  it  round,  began  with  quiet  driv 
ing  to  cover  the  furrows  that  Ellen  had  last  sown;  and 

1 66 


ANOTHER  CORN-FIELD 

when  these  were  done,  glancing  at  the  girl  and  seeing 
her  still  asleep,  he  laughed  again  to  himself,  and  planted 
more  rows,  covering  them  in  turn ;  and  then  more  again, 
until  when  the  sun  sloped  to  five  o'clock  there  was  only 
a  little  stretch  of  the  field  left  unplanted.  At  five 
o'clock  Ellen  stirred  softly  and  awoke.  She  did  not 
at  once  open  her  eyes,  trying  to  guess  dreamily  where 
she  was.  The  sun  now  shone  full  in  her  face,  and 
beating  through  her  closed  lids  made  the  blood  in 
them  hang  before  her  eyes  like  a  crimson  curtain,  and 
she  felt  as  though  she  were  alone  in  a  warm  shut-away 
room,  all  in  red. 

Suddenly  she  was  aroused  from  her  still  half -dreamy 
state  by  a  man's  voice — "Whoa  haw — !  haw  there!" 
it  cried. 

Adrian  for  the  moment  had  forgotten  her,  and  let 
out  his  voice  in  all  its  accustomed  energy  and  vigour  of 
tone  over  some  more  than  usually  irritating  bit  of 
stupidity  on  the  old  mare's  part. 

At  the  words,  Ellen  struggled  to  her  feet  in  astonish 
ment.  Looking  across  the  field  she  caught  sight  of  his 
lusty  figure  ploughing  at  the  further  end  of  it. 

He  was  tall  and  strong  looking,  and  for  one  wild 
moment,  scarcely  yet  thoroughly  awake,  Ellen  thought 
it  was  David  Cree,  and  her  heart  gave  a  sudden  stifling 
bound.  The  next  instant  she  saw  that  it  was  Adrian 
Blair,  and  though  her  agitation  subsided  a  little  she 
was  still  overwhelmingly  surprised.  And  as  she  looked 
at  his  stalwart  figure  going  steadily  over  the  field,  and 
accomplishing  so  easily  what  a  few  hours  ago  had 

167 


THE  SOWING   OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

seemed  such  an  impossible  burden  to  herself,  a  quick 
throb  of  gratitude  rose  in  her  throat,  and  catching  up 
her  sunbonnet  she  ran  hastily  across  the  field  to  him, 
meaning  to  pour  out  all  her  eager  thanks.  Yet  when 
she  came  up  with  him,  and  he  turned  round  and  greeted 
her  with  a  laugh,  somehow,  all  at  once,  the  cold  wall 
of  her  shy  reserve  rose  up  as  always,  shutting  her  in 
upon  herself,  and  all  she  found  to  say  was: 

"I  certainly  am  erbliged  ter  yer,  Adrian,"  and  that 
little  was  said  with  downcast  eyes,  and  with  such  a 
lack  of  cordiality,  that  her  constraint  communicated 
itself  to  Adrian,  and  all  the  usual  easy  flow  of  his  con 
versation  stiffened  into  hoarse  self-consciousness. 

"Oh!  hit  ain't  nothin',"  he  said  huskily.  "I  hap 
pened  ter  come  by,  an'  seein'  you  asleep  thought  I'd 
see  ef  bein'  in  camp  all  winter  hed  made  me  fergit 
what  ploughin'  was  like." 

"  Yer' re  awful  good,"  Ellen  said,  standing  awk 
wardly  before  him,  still  with  dropped  eyes,  and  in 
wardly  hating  herself  for  her  frozen  stiffness. 

And  again  he  repeated,  "Oh!  hit  ain't  nothin',"  and 
played  with  the  plough  line  to  hide  his  embarrassment. 

"You  go  on  back  an'  take  ernother  nap,  an'  I'll  hev 
ther  whole  thing  knocked  out  by  ther  time  you  wake 
up  ergin,"  he  urged  presently. 

"I  ain't  tired  any  mo',"  Ellen  answered,  still  con 
strainedly. 

"All  right  then;  you  go  on  an'  plant,  an'  betwixt  us 
we'll  git  this  ole  field  finished  up  d'rectly,"  he  said, 
recovering  something  of  his  buoyancy,  for  even  Ellen's 

168 


ANOTHER  CORN-FIELD 

shyness  could  not  long  have  a  repressive  effect  upon 
him,  and  in  the  face  of  action  his  awkwardness  began 
to  drop  from  him. 

Obediently  and  still  in  silence  Ellen  took  up  the  bag 
of  seed  corn,  and  began  her  journey  once  more  across 
the  furrows.  But  now,  how  different  it  all  was! 

The  vigour  of  the  afternoon  coolness  had  begun  to 
creep  into  the  air;  her  listless  steps  took  on  a  certain 
lightness,  and  with  some  one  to  follow  her  with  the 
plough,  corn-planting  seemed  all  at  once  the  happy 
occupation,  touched  with  the  miracle  of  spring,  that 
it  should  of  right  be,  and  no  longer  a  burden  of  endless 
toil  —  for  such  is  the  grace  of  companionship. 

As  for  Adrian,  the  world  as  well  seemed  to  go  merrily 
with  him.  After  the  first  row  or  two  of  silence,  the 
last  shreds  of  his  shyness  melted  away,  and  he  broke 
forth  into  a  continuous  flow  of  volubility  —  snatches 
of  song,  scraps  of  tune  pursued  to  a  shrill  climax; 
ridiculous  remonstrances  and  adjurations  addressed 
to  the  old  mare,  and  even  bits  of  gay  banter  directed  at 
Ellen  herself;  and  to  her  own  surprise,  Ellen  found 
herself  more  than  once  smiling  irresistibly  at  his  stream 
of  vivacity,  which  seemed  just  the  radiance  of  the 
spring  weather  put  into  words.  And  dimly,  though 
her  unanalytical  mind  failed  to  put  the  thought  into 
actual  form,  she  wondered  if  the  world  after  all  was  a 
place  in  which  one  might  laugh,  instead  of  a  long 
succession  of  sombre  days  where  was  only  the  dull 
ache  of  a  lonely  heart. 

Three  quarters  of  an  hour  of  steady  work  and  the 
169 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

field  was  done,  and  lay  in  the  long  reach  of  the  after 
noon  shadows  a  prophecy  of  growth  and  bourgeoning, 
written  in  tender  shades  of  sepia. 

"Gee!"  cried  Adrian,  dropping  the  plough  handles 
and  stretching  his  long  arms;  "that  ole  horse  er 
yourn's  got  er  mouth  like  er  sawmill,  an'  she's  jest 
erbout  es  hard-headed  an'  contrary." 

For  a  moment  his  geniality  melted  the  frozen  chill 
of  Ellen's  manner,  and  coming  up  with  the  now  almost 
empty  seed  bag  limp  across  her  arm,  she  paused  before 
him. 

"I  certainly  am  erbliged  ter  yer,  Adrian,"  she  said. 

It  was  the  same  short  sentence  that  she  had  used 
before,  only  this  time  she  smiled  prettily  at  him,  her 
eyes  alight  with  gratitude,  and  her  shyness  was  only 
evidenced  by  a  faint  reddening  of  her  cheeks. 

Adrian  looked  at  her  an  instant  quickly,  and  nothing 
of  the  softening  of  her  face,  which  brought  out  all  her 
dark  beauty,  was  lost  upon  him. 

"Then  ef  yer  erbliged  ter  me,"  he  said,  dropping 
down  to  the  grassy  bank  at  the  edge  of  the  field,  "Set 
down  here  fer  er  spell  and  let's  talk,"  and  his  pleasant 
grey  eyes  began  to  dance  with  a  light  that  was  not  all 
laughter. 

But  Ellen's  fatal  reserve  was  already  stealing  back 
upon  her,  and  she  shook  her  head. 

"I  —  I  —  can't,"  she  stammered,  "I  got  er  whole 
heap  er  things  ter  do." 

"Then  don't  do  'em,"  he  counselled  buoyantly. 
"Things  that  yer  hev  ter  do  is  er  lot  mo'  interestin' 

170 


ANOTHER  CORN-FIELD 

when  yer  leave  'em  undone";  and  suddenly  putting 
up  his  hand  he  drew  her  down  to  the  bank  beside  him, 
though  she  tried  to  resist. 

At  his  touch  Ellen's  face  went  a  painful  scarlet, 
and  she  stiffened  all  over  with  confusion.  She  settled 
herself  primly  on  the  bank,  very  conscious  of  her 
faded  skirt  and  old  patched  shoes,  and  once  more  her 
tense  embarrassment  chilled  Adrian,  and  again  silence 
reigned  between  them. 

"How's  ther  ole  folks?"  he  ventured  at  length, 
dropping  back  into  conventionality,  his  voice  hoarse 
again. 

"Mammy's  jest  like  she  allers  is;  and  Pappy's 
terrible  crippled  up  with  ther  rheumatiz,"  she  answered, 
fiddling  with  her  sunbonnet  strings. 

"You'd  orter  hev  somebody  ter  help  yer,"  he  said 
kindly,  "hit's  too  much  for  any  girl  ter  hev  ter  do." 

"Oh!  I  kin  manage  some  way,"  Ellen  answered 
stiffly;  but  his  sympathy  lifted  a  little  the  veil  of  hard 
shyness,  and  this  time  the  silence  did  not  last  such  a 
painfully  long  time,  and  was  even  broken  by  her. 

"What's  ther  news  in  ther  Draft?"  she  ventured, 
her  heart  beating  quicker  at  the  sound  of  her  own 
voice. 

"  Ther  ain't  none  es  I  knows  on,"  Adrian  returned. 
"Yes,  though,  ther  is,"  he  added,  and  then  paused 
abruptly.  "Ther's  er  right  big  piece  er  news,"  he 
said,  "but  hit  ain't  ter  be  talked  of.  Ef  I  tell  you,  will 
yer  promis'  not  ter  tell?" 

Ellen  nodded.  "  I  ain't  very  likely  ter  see  anybody 
171 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

ter  tell  erway  up  here  on  ther  mountain,"  she  said, 
something  of  her  self-consciousness  lost  in  her  interest 
in  what  he  had  to  say. 

"That's  so,"  Adrian  assented.  "Well,  then  — Kip 
Ryerson's  come  back!" 

"Kip  Ryerson?"  Ellen  repeated  in  question. 

"Yes,  ther  feller  they  say  shot  Dave  Cree's  father. 
They  seed  him  at  ther  sto'  yesterday." 

At  his  words  Ellen  drew  a  sharp,  deep  breath,  and 
her  face  went  white.  "Oh!"  she  cried  in  terror. 
"Oh!  der  yer  reckon  he'll  do  anything  ter  Dave?" 
Forgetful  of  herself  she  leaned  eagerly  toward  Adrian, 
and  her  dark  eyes  were  full  of  fear. 

For  a  moment  Adrian  looked  at  her  in  surprise,  then 
he  spoke  harshly.  "What  makes  you  look  that 
erway?"  he  demanded.  "Is  Dave  Cree  er  sweet 
heart  er  yourn?" 

Ellen's  pale  face  burnt  suddenly  crimson  with  morti 
fication,  and  she  shrank  away  from  him  as  though  he 
had  struck  at  her. 

"Er  —  er  course  he  ain't,"  she  faltered,  her  eyes 
bright  with  tears  of  humiliation.  "You  know  very 
well  he  ain't.  He's  goin'  with  Mary  Reddin." 

"Then  what  do  you  keer  ef  Kip  lays  fer  him  er  not. 
Ain't  Dave  big  ernough  ter  take  keer  er  hisself  ?"  he 
said  roughly,  adding  "Ef  I  was  you  I  wouldn't  be 
worryin'  so  much  erbout  ernother  girl's  sweetheart." 

The  words  and  the  tone  as  well  were  insulting,  sting 
ing  the  girl  like  a  whip  lash.  Instantly  her  self-con 
sciousness  and  humility  vanished,  and  in  the  face  of 

172 


ANOTHER  CORN-FIELD 

the  insult  offered  her  she  rose  to  her  own  defence. 
Leaping  to  her  feet  she  stood  before  him  tall  and  dig 
nified,  and  unafraid. 

"Don't  speak  ter  me  like  that,  Adrian  Blair",  she 
said  in  a  slow,  tense  voice.  "I  keer  what  happens  ter 
David  Cree  because  I  keer  what  happens  ter  any  er 
ther  folks  I  knows.  An'  let  me  tell  yer  this  —  I  ain't 
got  anybody  in  the  whole  world  ter  keer  how  I'm  spoken 
ter,  an'  I  ain't  never  had  nobody  ter  keer,  an'  hit's 
taught  me  allers  how  ter  look  after  myself,  an'  reckon 
I  kin  do  hit  still.  An'  I'll  jest  tell  yer  now  onct  fer  all, 
that  I  ain't  goin'tererlow  you  ner  nobody  else  ter  speak 
ter  me  that  erway  —  I  ain't  goin'  ter  erlow  hit — der 
you  onderstand?"  she  demanded. 

She  seemed  to  tower  above  him,  her  eyes  flashing 
and  her  breast  rising  and  falling  in  deep  angry  gasps. 
She  was  no  longer  the  humble  shrinking  girl  that  the 
Draft  knew,  she  was  her  own  true  self,  Ellen  Daw,  a 
splendid  defiant  young  thing,  thrown  entirely  upon 
herself  and  capable  of  defending  herself  against  all  the 
world. 

For  a  moment  or  two  she  stood  arrogantly  before 
Adrian,  her  eyes  blazing  a  challenge  into  his  astonished 
ones;  then  she  turned  proudly  away,  and  gathering 
up  the  bag  of  corn  she  laid  her  hands  to  the  plough 
handles,  and  with  a  short  word  of  command  started 
the  old  mare  toward  the  stable. 

Adrian  got  quickly  to  his  feet,  and  took  the  handles 
from  her,  guiding  the  plough  carefully  along,  and  lift 
ing  it  over  grassy  places  so  that  it  should  not  cut  the 


THE   SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

turf,  but  he  was  too  dazed  by  the  vehemence  of  her 
outburst  to  find  anything  to  say. 

At  the  stable  Ellen  began  undoing  the  harness,  and 
Adrian  helped  her,  but  still  neither  of  them  spoke. 
Once,  in  putting  up  a  strap,  their  hands  touched, 
and  Adrian's  face  flushed,  but  Ellen  appeared  not  to 
notice  it. 

Finally  she  took  the  last  piece  of  harness  from  the 
mare  and  turned  towards  the  stable,  but  Adrian  inter 
posed  quickly. 

"I'm  awful  sorry,  Ellen,"  he  stammered,  "I  didn't 
mean  ter  say  nothin'  ter  make  yer  mad,  honest  I  didn't, 
honest,"  he  pleaded. 

"All  right,"  she  said  calmly  and  coldly.  "Hit  don't 
matter.  Folks  don't  often  stop  ter  think  whether  I'm 
goin'  ter  be  mad  er  not,  an'  sometimes  I  hev  ter  show 
'em.  Good  evenin'  ter  yer,"  she  added,  and  turned 
away  again,  but  paused  once  more.  "I'm  much  erbliged 
ter  yer  fer  plantin'  my  corn,"  she  said,  and  then  pass 
ing  him  went  into  the  little  dilapidated  feed  room  of 
the  stable  and  shut  the  door  determinately. 

Adrian  waited  without  for  a  few  minutes  hopefully; 
but  she  evidently  meant  not  to  return  while  he  was 
there,  and  he  was  forced  at  length  to  retire  crestfallen. 
He  went  slowly  down  the  mountain  to  the  Draft,  and 
as  he  went  he  gave  vent  every  now  and  again  to  a  low 
whistle  of  amazement. 

Inside  the  feed  room,  in  the  dark,  with  the  door 
safely  closed,  Ellen  listened  to  Adrian's  departing 
footsteps,  and  when  he  was  gone  quite  beyond  hearing 


ANOTHER   CORN-FIELD 

she  put  her  head  down  against  one  of  the  feed-bins,  and 
difficult  angry  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks,  and  her 
throat  ached  and  ached  with  the  mortification  of  it. 

To  the  taciturn  girl  it  was  an  unbearable  stab  of 
shame  that  Adrian  had  touched  so  easily  and  so  roughly 
the  secret  of  her  love  for  David,  which  even  within 
herself  she  had  hardly  more  than  glimpsed  at;  and  for 
her  having  let  him  discover  it  she  hated  herself  with 
a  biting  self-scorn  and  humiliation. 


175 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  DRAFT  GOES  TO  PREACHING 

BROTHER  BRAXTON  of  the  Methodist  Episcopal 
church,  South,  had  come  to  the  last  week  of  his  pastor 
ate  of  the  souls  of  the  Jumping  Creek  neighbourhood, 
and  upon  this  first  Sunday  in  May  —  the  Sunday  after 
the  planting  of  the  Reddins'  corn-field,  and  of  Ellen 
Daw's  —  in  the  little  log  schoolhouse  of  the  Draft,  he 
was  to  take  leave  of  his  flock  and  to  preach  them  his 
farewell  sermon;  and  more  than  one  determined  matron 
swore  by  her  nine  gods  that  she  would  hear  that  fare 
well  sermon  "ef  she  died  fer  hit,  er  ef  (which  was  much 
more  likely  to  be  the  case)  she  hed  ter  git  up  'way  'fore 
day  ter  git  ther  work  done  up  an'  ther  young  uns  all 
dressed  in  time." 

"An'  I'm  ergoin'  ef  I  hev  ter  take  every  las'  chile 
Orin  Snyder's  got,"  Allie  Snyder  announced  to  Mrs. 
Sawyer,  who  dallied  for  a  few  minutes'  chat  on  the 
former's  small  porch,  in  the  cool  of  the  evening. 

"But  maybe,"  she  went  on  hopefully;  "Orin'll  want 
ter  stay  home  that  day  an'  tend  ther  kids,"  and  she 
cast  a  glance  fraught  with  sanguine  inquiry  at  that 
gentleman's  broad  back,  as  he  leaned  over  the  fence 
at  the  foot  of  the  yard. 

176 


THE  DRAFT  GOES  TO  PREACHING 

"Maybe  he  won't,  then,"  Orin  returned  unhesitat 
ingly,  and  apparently  to  Peter's  Ridge  opposite,  for 
he  did  not  turn  round. 

"Ain't  I  got  er  never  dyin'  soul  ter  save  es  well  es 
you?"  he  demanded.  "I'll  tote  es  many  kids  ter 
preachin'  es  you  choose  ter  load  me  up  with,  an'  I'll 
sorter  keep  er  eye  on  'em  after  ther  there;  but  ef  you 
leave  me  at  home  with  'em  —  specially  that  youngest 
one  —  time  you  git  back  I  won't  hev  no  soul  worth 
talkin'  erbout  lef  ter  save,  an'  I  wouldn't  be  no  ways 
surprised  ef  ther  was  er  kid  er  two  missin'  es  well." 

His  wife  looked  at  Mrs.  Sawyer  with  eyes  that  said 
plainly,  "Oh!  these  here  husbands!"  But  she  had 
the  wisdom  to  bow  to  the  inevitable,  and  remarked 
with  a  resigned  sigh,  "Then  reckon  every  last  one  er 
ther  Snyders  down  ter  ther  dog'll  hev  ter  go,  fer  he 
won't  stay  at  home  by  hisself." 

But  there  were  other  fathers  in  the  Draft  more  self- 
sacrificing  than  Mr.  Snyder,  who  were  induced  to 
resign  the  pleasure  of  a  chat  with  congenial  spirits 
outside  the  schoolhouse  before  the  preacher's  arrival, 
and  good-naturedly  stayed  at  home  with  the  smallest 
children,  while  their  fortunate  wives  disported  them 
selves  at  preaching,  forgetful  for  a  few  care-free  hours 
that  they  possessed  anything  younger  than,  say,  six 
or  eight  years  of  age.  In  other  families  unselfish 
mothers  remained  behind;  and  thus  the  schoolhouse 
was  kept  from  being  quite  inundated  by  babies  of  a 
tender,  and  those  of  a  toddling,  age. 

But  there  were  in  truth  few  of  the  grown-ups,  or 
177 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

even  semi-grown-ups,  who  were  not  attended  on  their 
way  to  meeting  by  satellites  of  small  people,  who  ran 
on  ahead,  lagged  behind,  danced  sideways  across  the 
road;  and  if  little  girls,  made  wild  excursions  up  into 
the  wooded  hillsides  after  spring  flowers;  or  if  little 
boys,  conducted  a  strenuous  and  stony  warfare  against 
the  unfortunate  frogs  who  had  short-sightedly  selected 
the  roadside  ditches  for  their  summer  homes,  so  that 
all  the  way  harassed  parents  and  older  sisters  were 
under  the  necessity  of  keeping  up  a  running  fire  of 
admonition,  such  as: 

"Now,  Ellie,  you  come  down  outer  them  woods, 
you  tear  yer  does,  an'  anyhow  I  bet  ther's  snakes  up 
in  there."  Or  — " You  Billy!  Quit  splashin'  that 
water!  Now  jest  look  what  yer  done  ter  yer  pants! 
What  yer  want  ter  hurt  that  po'  ole  bullfrog  fer  any 
how,  he  ain't  doin'  you  no  harm."  Or  again  —  "  Oh, 
git  out  from  under  Pappy's  feet  —  you'll  git  yerself 
tromped  on."  And  so  on  indefinitely. 

So  that  when  they  at  length  arrived  with  their  charges 
at  the  schoolhouse,  more  than  one  wornout  grown  up 
felt  as  though  his  or  her  eyes  had  turned  inside  out  in 
their  heads  and  looked  all  ways  of  a  Sunday  from 
their  efforts  to  keep  three  or  four  fleeting  figures  in 
view  at  once. 

Preaching  was  to  take  place  at  eleven,  and  since 
ten  o'clock  little  knots  and  groups  of  people  had  been 
going  up  the  road,  and  likewise  little  knots  and  groups 
had  been  coming  down  it;  both  to  meet  at  the  foot 
log  which  spans  the  Jumping  Creek  near  the  school- 

178 


THE  DRAFT  GOES  TO  PREACHING 

house,  and  after  the  exchange  of  "  Howdys,"  and  weather 
remarks,  all  to  drift  across  the  log  and  up  the  steep 
bank  to  the  hilltop  where  the  schoolhouse  is  situated. 
Here  the  women  presently  retired  indoors,  while  the 
men  stayed  without,  lounging  in  comfortable  gossipy 
attitudes  under  the  trees,  in  no  unreasonable  hurry  for 
the  preacher's  arrival. 

From  up  and  down  the  Draft,  from  the  top  of  the 
near  mountains,  and  even  from  over  in  Clear  Creek, 
people  came  to  hear  Brother  Braxton's  farewell  ser 
mon,  and  to  sing  "  God  be  with  you  till  we  meet  again" 
for  him.  Some  walked,  some  rode,  and  some  drove 
in  spring  waggons  and  buggies ;  and  the  array  of  horses 
hitched  to  the  convenient  fence  rows  was  imposing 
indeed,  and  before  the  meeting  was  over  the  unfortunate 
top  rails  were  more  chewed  and  bitten  than  ever. 

Ten  o'clock  saw  Ellen  Daw  started  down  the  moun 
tain  on  her  long  tramp  to  the  schoolhouse.  She  had 
been  up  since  daybreak,  getting  breakfast,  milking, 
feeding  the  live  stock,  setting  the  house  to  rights,  and 
arranging  a  cold  dinner  for  her  father  and  mother,  as 
she  herself  meant  to  take  her  own  dinner  at  Mrs. 
Tompkins',  —  Mrs.  Daw's  sister  who  lived  in  the 
Draft,  not  very  far  below  the  schoolhouse,  and  who 
was  always  ready  to  give  the  girl  a  meal,  even  if  no 
store  of  affection  for  her,  or  slightest  interest  in  her, 
went  with  it. 

Already  Ellen  was  somewhat  tired  from  her  morn 
ing's  work,  and  there  still  lay  before  her  the  long  walk 
to  the  Draft.  She  was  tired  and  she  was  disheartened 

179 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

for  besides  the  usual  weary  hardness  of  her  life's  out 
look,  just  now  the  hurt  that  Adrian  Blair  had  given  her 
still  lay  fresh  in  her  heart,  and  stung  her  keenly  when 
ever  she  let  her  thoughts  go  back  to  it.  And  go  back 
to  it  they  would  in  spite  of  her  determination  to  put 
it  behind  her.  Adrian's  rough  words,  spoken  as  she 
supposed  in  contempt,  returned  to  her  mind  over  and 
over,  "Is  Dave  Cree  er  sweetheart  er  yourn?" 

A  sweetheart  of  hers!  As  though  Adrian  Blair  did 
not  know,  what  the  whole  Draft  must  know,  that  no 
one  was  her  sweetheart,  or  ever  had  been,  nor  in  all 
probability  ever  would  be ! 

And  then,  too,  his  quick  guess  that  she  cared  for 
David!  At  every  fresh  remembrance  of  that,  even  all 
alone,  her  cheeks  burnt  and  her  eyes  grew  misty  with 
mortification.  Other  things,  too,  combined  on  that 
Sunday  morning  to  make  Ellen  feel  with  especial 
keenness  the  grey  mist  of  her  isolation  and  poverty. 
Her  Sunday  dress  and  sunbonnet  of  calico  seemed 
more  than  ever  faded  and  scant.  They  had  never 
been  of  a  pretty  pattern,  and  had  been  bought  by  Silas 
Daw,  dear  knows  how  many  summers  before,  at  Lin 
den,  and  now  their  original  ugliness  had  bleached  to  a 
hateful  bleary  mixture  of  yellow  and  red,  "That  er 
skeercrow'd  be  ershamed  ter  wear,"  Ellen  whispered 
bitterly,  as  she  looked  over  the  shrunk  length  of  her 
skirt  and  down  at  her  rough,  clumsy  shoes,  made 
painfully  conspicuous  by  the  flimsy  shortness  of  her 
dress.  She  had  carefully  washed  and  ironed  the 
dress  the  day  before,  in  an  attempt  to  improve  its 

1 80 


THE  DRAFT  GOES  TO  PREACHING 

appearance,  because,  for  the  sake  of  her  hurt  vanity, 
she  had  fiercely  resolved  to  make  herself  look  as  well 
as  she  possibly  could.  But  the  endeavour  was  very 
far  from  a  success,  and  when  she  looked  at  her  dark 
unhappy  face  in  her  scrap  of  mirror,  and  surveyed 
her  forlorn  frock,  she  felt  for  herself  and  her  whole 
make-up  an  absolute,  bitter  contempt. 

"I  don't  wonder  folks  lafs  at  yer,"  she  said  cruelly 
to  her  reflection.  "I'd  laf  at  yer  myself  ef  I  was  ter 
meet  yer  as  somebody  else.  No,  no";  she  cried 
passionately,  breaking  off,  "I  wouldn't  laf,  I  don't 
believe  I  would,  even  ef  hit  was  somebody  else.  I 
b'lieve  I'd  be  sorry  fer  anything  so  miser'ble  lookin'. 
I  hope  I  would!  Oh,  I  hope  I  would!  O  Lord,"  she 
whispered  presently,  "I  wished  ther  was  somebody 
out'n  all  ther  world  keered  how  I  looked,  er  whether  I 
lived  er  died.  Jest  somebody  —  I  wouldn't  keer  who, 
jest  so  long  as  they  keered  fer  me.  Maybe  then  I'd 
git  so's  I  keered  er  little  bit  fer  myself,  an'  didn't  think 
I  was  jest  ther  poorest  an'  homeliest  thing  in  ther 
whole  country." 

"There  now,  there!"  she  cried  after  a  moment. 
"  I  aint  ergoin'  ter  think  erbout  hit  no  mo'.  I  know  I'm 
ugly  an'  orn'ry,  an'  nobody  don't  keer  whether  I  am 
or  not  —  but  I  jest  won't  think  erbout  hit  no  mo' ! 
I  won't,  won't,  won't!"  she  cried  fiercely. 

And  yet,  poor  lonesome  little  thing,  in  spite  of  her 
determined  bravery,  she  did  think  about  it  over  and 
over  again;  and  she  might  have  stayed  away  from 
preaching  altogether  that  morning,  in  her  bitterness 

181 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

and  humiliation  of  spirit,  save  that  she  knew  one  hap 
piness  was  in  store  for  her  there.  She  would  be  able 
to  sing.  And  for  this  one  bit  of  pure  delight  she  was 
willing  to  brave  all  the  covert  glances  of  amusement 
that  her  appearance  always  provoked,  and  of  which 
she  was  always  so  painfully  aware.  Moreover,  though 
she  scarcely  acknowledged  it  to  herself,  she  wished 
exceedingly  to  hear  more  particulars  of  Kip  Ryerson's 
return,  and  to  look  at  Mary  Reddin  and  David  Cree. 

It  was  an  intensely  hot  May  morning  and  more  than 
one  breathless  and  moist  individual  hoped  "there'd 
come  er  rain  'fore  night."  For  a  week  past  this  pro 
cession  of  hot  bright  days  had  gone  by,  treading  on 
each  other's  heels  and  making  the  farmers  toil  at  their 
planting  with  feverish  haste,  one  anxious  eye  cocked 
towards  the  horizon  in  fear  of  a  possible  thunder-storm. 
Every  day  had  opened  with  dazzling  clearness,  and 
every  day  weather  prophets  had  promised  a  storm  be 
fore  evening.  But  though  each  afternoon,  round  omi 
nous  clouds  had  boiled  up  out  of  the  west  in  black  heaps, 
so  far  no  rain  had  come  of  them,  or  if  any,  it  was  but 
a  thin  veil  of  moisture,  to  be  let  down  on  the  mountain 
peaks  only,  and  to  go  drifting  off  up  the  river,  by  way 
of  the  high  places  of  Drupe  Mountain,  without  ever 
descending  into  the  valley. 

This  Sunday  was  the  hottest  day  as  yet,  and  there  was 
a  certain  breathless  pause  in  the  feel  of  the  atmosphere, 
as  though  all  nature  lay  in  suspense  over  what  might  be 
coming,  and  in  terror  of  the  clutch  of  her  own  elements. 

People  gasped  in  the  heat;  mothers  wiped  their 
182 


THE  DRAFT  GOES  TO  PREACHING 

babies'  damp  foreheads,  pushed  back  their  hair,  and 
borrowed  their  husband's  hats  for  fans;  while  the  little 
girls  looked  dejectedly  at  their  wilted  knots  of  flowers, 
faded  almost  as  soon  as  plucked,  and  now  but  a  limp 
remembrance  of  their  ungathered  alertness. 

If  Ellen  Daw  dressed  for  preaching  with  a  dead 
heart  and  keen  self-scorn,  there  was  at  least  one  girl 
in  the  Draft  that  morning  who  dressed  in  an  eager, 
tumultuous  delight,  her  heart  as  buoyant  as  a  bit  of 
wind-tossed  thistle  down,  and  all  her  thoughts  on 
wings  —  and  that  girl  was  Mary  Reddin. 

She  had  a  dainty  new  pink  muslin  to  wear,  together 
with  a  white  hat  trimmed  with  a  little  wreath  of  roses; 
which  gay  finery  had  been  purchased  with  the  money 
saved  from  her  share  of  the  egg  and  chicken  branch  of 
the  farm  industry. 

When  she  was  all  dressed  and  turned  to  look  in  the 
glass  —  she  had  refrained  from  looking  until  all  the 
pretty  toilet  was  complete,  so  that  the  whole  effect 
might  burst  upon  her  at  once  —-  the  face  which  the 
mirror  gave  back  was  so  sparklingly  pure  and  exquisite 
that  a  delicate  soft  colour  swept  over  her  cheeks  in  sur 
prise  at  her  own  loveliness. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  looking  at  her  reflection, 
then  she  whispered  softly,  "Oh!  do  you  reckon  he'll 
like  hit?"  Whereat  her  face  answered  her  with  a  tiny 
dimpling  smile  of  reassurance.  Then  she  caught  up 
her  pink  rufHes  and  floated  down  the  narrow  boxed-in 
stairway,  and  out  into  the  living  room,  like  a  rosy 
cloud  that  had  gone  astray. 

183 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

At  her  appearance  the  members  of  the  family  who 
happened  to  be  present  caught  their  breath  in  Ohs!  or 
gave  vent  to  whistles,  according  to  their  nature,  for 
Mary  was  the  miracle  and  darling  of  the  whole  family. 
And  as  the  Reddins  abounded  more  especially  in  the 
masculine  element,  the  whistles,  as  always,  somewhat 
drowned  the  Ohs! 

Mary  stood  among  them  for  a  few  minutes  blushing 
over  their  frank  admiration,  and  trying  to  look  uncon 
scious  as  her  mother  fussed  and  pulled  at  her  ruffles 
—  not  because  they  really  needed  pulling  out,  but  be 
cause  she  could  not  keep  her  hands  away  from  com 
ing  in  contact  with  such  prettiness,  and  because  she 
did  not  think  it  would  be  quite  right  to  take  the 
girl  in  her  arms  and  hug  her,  as  she  would  have  liked 
to  do. 

Bobbie  regarded  his  sister  in  silence  for  a  space; 
then  out  of  the  subtle  observations  of  youth  he  re 
marked,  "I  reckon  Dave  Cree  must  be  ergoin'  ter 
preachin'  with  you." 

"Der  yer,  honey?"  she  answered  with  elaborate 
astonishment.  "Why,  what  makes  yer  think  that?" 

Which  retort  brought  the  laughter  of  the  older  ones 
upon  Bobbie  and  made  him  resort  to  his  disgusted  and 
much  overworked  repartee  of  "Aw,"  a  repartee 
which  Mary  wrung  from  him  many  times  a  day,  to 
her  own  no  small  delight  and  to  the  general  promotion 
of  the  gaiety  of  the  Reddins.  Upon  this  occasion, 
however,  fate  favoured  Bobbie;  for  in  glancing  down 
the  lane,  he  suddenly  exclaimed  triumphantly : 

184 


THE  DRAFT  GOES  TO  PREACHING 

"I  think  so  'cause  I  see  Dave  ercomin'  now!  A-ha-a 
Miss  Mary!" 

And  for  once  Mary  was  covered  with  confusion  and 
had  to  take  refuge  in  his  own  embarrassed  retort  of 
"Aw";  and  even  the  baby  might  have  seen  that  she 
was  blushing  pink  as  she  slipped  away  from  them  all 
and  went  down  the  little  pathway  to  the  gate  to  meet 
David. 

Coming  to  meet  him  with  floating  ruffles,  and  airy 
step,  she  seemed  to  David  such  a  dazzling  thing  that 
his  eyes  fell  before  her,  and  his  tongue  was  thick  and 
clumsy  when  he  spoke. 

"Aire  —  aire  yer  ready,  sweetheart?"  he  said  con 
fusedly. 

Mary  came  through  the  gate,  closing  it  carefully 
behind  her,  and  started  down  the  lane  beside  him. 

"I'm-— I'm  ready,  sweetheart,"  she  faltered,  in 
mischievous  imitation,  the  face  she  lifted  to  him  alive 
with  merriment. 

David's  embarrassment  melted  at  her  words  like  the 
morning  mists  before  the  sun,  and  he  laughed  from  a 
full  heart. 

"Yer  ther  very  sweetest  thing  that  ever  wralked  ther 
earth,"  he  said  with  deep  conviction.  He  drew  one  of 
her  slender  hands  under  his  arm,  and  looking  down  at 
her  added  in  a  shaken  voice,  "An'  hit  don't  seem  hardly 
possible  that  God's  goin'  ter  let  me  walk  beside  yer." 

After  that  they  went  on  in  silence  for  a  long  distance, 
Mary's  hand  pressed  hard  against  his  side,  and  their 
arms  touching. 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

It  seemed  to  David  that  in  the  last  week  the  heavens 
had  opened,  and  he  had  seen  all  the  beauty  and  wonder 
of  the  world  at  a  glance.  Once  before  he  had  had  a 
revelation  that  had  shaken  him  out  of  the  common 
ways  of  life,  but  that  had  been  a  revelation  of  the 
wickedness  and  hatred  in  life;  and  he  felt  now  with  a 
glad  relief  that  in  the  wonder  of  this  present  miracle 
he  might  forget  that  old  seared  remembrance,  that 
had  taught  him  as  a  child  how  to  hate  with  a  man's 
passion.  For  certainly  Mary's  sweet  gaiety  was  the 
very  antithesis  of  bitterness.  And  probably  in  all 
that  drew  him  to  her,  her  sparkling  vivacity  had  for 
him  the  subtlest  fascination.  At  twelve  years  old 
Fate  had  torn  from  him  at  one  clutch  all  his  careless 
gaiety,  and  though  perhaps  thereby  his  nature  was 
made  stronger,  it  was  with  the  strength  of  love  and 
hate,  and  not  of  laughter.  In  the  years  of  his  dawning 
manhood  something  of  lightness  came  back  to  him, 
but  it  was  never  the  spontaneous  gaiety  of  Mary's 
nature,  and  it  was  therefore  that  her  sprightliness 
appealled  to  him  so  irresistibly,  in  very  contrast  to  his 
own  disposition.  His  nature  was  very  strong  and 
very  deep,  with  undercurrents  of  passion  only  guessed 
at  even  by  himself,  and  he  knew  always  that  his  feelings 
swayed  him  more  than  ever  his  reason  did.  Moreover, 
he  was  the  more  intense,  being  as  he  was,  untouched 
by  the  fleeting  wing  of  laughter.  Laughter,  that 
wonderful  gift  of  the  gods  that  is  at  once  the  strength 
and  the  weakness  of  the  world.  The  strength,  because 
with  one  touch  from  it  the  pettiness  of  self-importance 

186 


THE  DRAFT  GOES  TO  PREACHING 

is  erased;  the  weakness,  because  it  can  all  too  easily 
take  the  vitality  out  of  deep  feeling. 

A  little  below  the  schoolhouse  there  is  a  tiny  path 
which  leaves  the  wide  track  of  the  main  road  and 
goes  meandering  up  the  side  of  Peter's  Ridge,  and  like 
a  truant  child  makes  many  a  little  turn  and  twist  be 
fore  it  finally  dips  again  toward  the  green  knoll  of  the 
schoolhouse. 

Most  of  the  Draft  people  that  day  stuck  to  the  road, 
for  what  was  the  good  of  walking  a  little  way  up  Peter's 
Ridge  just  for  the  sake  of  coming  down  it  again? 
Especially  when  the  highway  was  dotted  with  cheerful 
groups  of  people  all  ready  for  gay  talk  and  exchange 
of  news,  whereas  the  path  was  deserted. 

But  when  David  and  Mary  came  to  it,  with  one 
accord  they  turned  along  its  green  seclusion,  and  at 
the  beginning  of  the  way,  when  they  were  once  safe 
within  its  solitude,  David  bent  and  kissed  Mary  pas 
sionately  upon  the  lips;  and  again,  about  midway  of 
the  path,  he  kissed  her  once  more.  And  each  time  she 
gave  him  back  his  kisses,  her  eyes  shut  and  her  face 
gone  a  little  white. 

As  they  came  to  the  last  bend  that  hid  them  from 
the  schoolhouse,  Mary  paused  in  the  path,  looking  up 
into  his  eyes. 

"Dave,"  she  said;  "Dave." 

"What,  honey?"  he  answered  tenderly. 

She  slipped  her  fingers  down  his  powerful  arm  until 
they  came  to  rest  in  his  palm;  there  she  put  the  other 
hand  too,  clinging  to  him  like  a  child. 

187 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

"David,"  she  said  again,  and  her  face  was  almost 
tragic  in  its  intensity;  "O  Dave!  I'm  so  happy  —  don't 
let  anything  come  betwixt  us."  Suddenly  out  there 
in  the  woods,  where  were  only  the  hemlock  trees  and 
the  budding  azalea  bushes  to  spy  upon  them,  she  leaned 
tremblingly  against  him,  and  her  words  came  with 
almost  a  sob,  "O  Dave!  I  keer  so  much,  I'm  skeered 
ter  think  how  much.  An'  oh!  I'm  skeered  —  skeered 
ter  think  something'll  come  betwixt  us  —  an'  hit'll  kill 
me  if  hit  does!" 

David  flung  his  arms  about  her,  and  pressed  her 
hard  against  him. 

"Sweetheart, sweetheart! "he cried.  "Nothin'  sha'n't 
ever  come  betwixt  us  —  nothin',  nothin',  nothin'!" 

For  a  moment  more  she  lay  against  his  breast  and 
he  could  feel  her  shake  all  over;  then  suddenly  she 
sprang  erect,  and  gave  him  one  of  her  elusive  fleeting 
smiles,  though  the  tears  still  hung  on  her  lashes. 

"I'm  goin'  ter  preachin'!"  she  cried,  "aire  you?" 

And  catching  up  her  pink  skirts  she  whisked  down 
the  path,  and  round  the  bend  and  out  on  to  the  plateau 
of  the  schoolhouse. 

And  David  followed  her  laughing  —  and  oh !  but 
the  world  was  a  wonderful  place! 


188 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE    MEETING 

BROTHER  BRAXTON  was  late  in  getting  to  the  school- 
house  and  his  waiting  congregation  on  that  farewell 
Sunday  morning.  Probably,  as  it  was  his  last  day 
among  them,  there  were  many  of  his  friends  to  stop 
him  for  last  words  and  leave-takings,  on  his  way  up 
the  valley  from  Linden  —  which  was  the  small  village 
at  the  mouth  of  the  Jumping  Creek  Draft.  No  one, 
however,  was  in  any  way  disturbed  over  his  lateness. 
It  was,  in  truth,  too  hot  to  take  the  shortcomings  of  a 
fellow-being  very  strenuously  to  heart  —  even  though 
that  fellow-being  happened  to  be  a  preacher,  the  usual 
free  target  for  every  complainer's  arrow.  Moreover, 
the  later  the  preacher,  the  more  time  for  the  men  to 
exchange  gossip  under  the  trees,  and  for  the  women 
to  do  likewise  within  the  schoolhouse ;  while  the  children 
raced  back  and  forth,  from  Mammy  indoors,  to  Daddy 
outside,  making  thereby  what  might  be  called  a 
running  accompaniment  to  the  general  conversation. 
Here  and  there  clusters  of  little  girls  compared  their 
new  hats,  which  Mammy  or  Daddy  had  bought  for 
them  at  Linden,  and  criticized  one  another's  sash 

189 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

ribbons,  or  —  dearest  delight  of  all,  to  the  heart  of 
the  small  girl  of  the  Draft  —  boasted  of  the  wit  and 
beauty  of  their  respective  baby  sister  or  brother. 

Small  boys,  now  that  Mammy  was  safely  housed, 
pursued  an  excited  and  unreproved  chase  of  various 
water  inhabitants  of  the  Jumping  Creek;  whether 
crayfish,  frog,  minnow,  or  erratic  skipper  —  most 
difficult  and  elusive  quarry  of  all. 

Couples  of  young  men  and  maidens  idled  across  the 
foot  log  and  up  the  hill,  to  retire  discreetly  to  the 
shelter  of  the  schoolhouse,  where  the  women  folk  were 
more  kindly  unobservant  than  the  group  of  men 
lounging  under  the  trees.  As  Mary  and  David  went 
past,  a  little  low  ripple  of  speculation  broke  out  in 
their  wake,  during  which  Ellen  Daw,  with  a  shy  "  Good 
mawnin'  ter  yer  all,"  slipped  by  the  critics  and  entered 
the  schoolhouse,  glad  that  she  should  come  as  it  were 
in  the  trail  of  Mary's  greatness,  and  thus  escape  com 
ment.  Indoors  she  settled  herself  on  a  back  seat 
somewhat  off  in  the  shadows;  but  even  here  she  was 
sensitively  alive  to  the  amused  glances  with  which 
most  of  the  girls  greeted  her  appearance. 

Outside  the  storekeeper  stretched  his  legs  to  the 
utmost  limit  of  their  meagre  length,  and  leaned  his 
back  luxuriously  against  the  trunk  of  a  huge  oak  tree. 
Having  come  early  with  forethought  to  his  own  com 
fort  he  had  secured  the  friendliest  position  which  the 
bole  of  the  old  tree  afforded;  and  was  moreover  —  as 
he  loved  to  be  —  thus  established  in  the  centre  of  the 
group  of  men,  who,  having  come  later,  lounged,  per- 

190 


THE  MEETING 

force,  upon  the  grass  in  more  or  less  uneasy  positions, 
with  no  friendly  supporting  tree  for  their  backs. 

"I  bet  yer,"  he  said,  spying  up  at  the  heavens,  "that 
we  git  er  thunder-storm  'fore  night.  An'  when  she 
comes  she'll  be  er  everlastin'  Jim  Bruiser.  Ther  ele 
ments  don't  keep  on  er  promisin'  trouble  like  they've 
been  doin'  fer  ther  last  week  without  somethin'  comin' 
in  ther  end." 

At  least  every  second  man  in  the  group  had  specu 
lated  once,  at  any  rate,  on  the  weather  probabilities 
that  morning;  nevertheless  Hedrick's  remark  was 
greeted  with  the  renewal  of  interest  that  is  always  the 
weather's  prerogative. 

"In  my  erpinion  hits  settin'  in  fer  er  long  dry  spell," 
Lloyd  Johnson  volunteered  lugubriously.  "An'  ef  hit 
does,  ther  corn'll  lay  so  long  in  ther  ground  without 
sproutin'  that  frcst'll  be  here  'fore  we  kin  git  hit  cut." 

Orin  Snyder  rolled  over  on  his  back  luxuriantly, 
and  looked  up  at  the  tender  new  foliage  of  the  oak; 
whereat,  one  of  the  many  and  all-pervading  small 
Snyders  immediately  came  and  sat  down  heavily  upon 
him.  Orin  sighed. 

"Ef  you  hed  es  many  children  es  I  hev,  Lloyd,"  he 
said,  "you  wouldn't  hev  ter  go  es  fer  es  next  corn-cuttin' 
time  ter  borrer  trouble.  Git  up  offen  yer  Pappy,"  he 
continued  to  the  youngster.  "Run  see  ef  that  ain't 
Mammy  callin'  yer,"  he  added  hopefully.  For  a 
wonder  his  strategy  was  successful,  and  the  small 
person  rose  and  obediently  trotted  into  the  school- 
house.  Orin  drew  a  breath  of  relief  and  triumph; 

191 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

but  presently  despondency  settled  once  more  upon 
him. 

"Hit  won't  do  no  good,"  he  said  gloomily,  "fer,  fer 
every  kid  I  manages  ter  send  in  ter  her,  she  sends  three 
fresh  ones  out  ergin  ter  me." 

"Yes,"  said  Johnson,  returning  once  more  to  the 
attack  upon  the  weather;  "I  know  hit's  goin'  ter  be  er 
long  dry  spell,  fer  hit's  got  commenced  jest  ther  way 
hit  did  that  spring  three  years  back,  when  ther  was  sech 
er  drouth  an'  then  come  that  big  storm.  Der  yer 
recollect  of  hit?" 

"Recollect  of  hit!"  cried  Hedrick.  "I  wished  I 
couldn't  recollect  hit.  Why,  ther's  times  yit,  ef 
ther  wind  blows  at  night,  that  I  dreams  erbout  hit. 
I  tell  yer,  fellers,  when  that  ole  storm  and  wind 
went  by  me,  an'  I  felt  my  store  kinder  trem'le  all 
over,  an'  seed  them  two  big  hickory  trees  come 
down  acrost  ther  road,  an'  ernother  one  sorter  lean 
over  like  hit  was  goin'  ter  lay  down  on  my  roof,  I 
thought  my  time  was  come  sure  'nough;  an'  I  says 
ter  myself,  'George',  I  says,  'ther '11  be  er  strange 
face  in  heaven  'fore  night.'" 

"Heaven?"  Adrian  Blair  interrupted  here  with 
pointed  interrogation. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Blair,  Sir;  that's  what  I  said,  Sir.  Ef  I'd 
er  meant  —  '  Hedrick  suddenly  paused,  looking  in 
tently  up  the  road.  "Look  yonder  comin',"  he  broke 
off  in  a  low  excited  voice. 

The  other  men,  following  his  gaze,  beheld  a  small 
group  of  lumbermen  swinging  leisurely  down  the  road 

192 


THE   MEETING 

toward  the  schoolhouse,  and  in  their  midst  walked  Kip 
Ryerson. 

"  Lord ! ' '  ejaculated  Snyder. 

"What's  ter  do  now?"  Hedrick  questioned  dubiously. 

At  that  moment  a  reconnoitring  party  of  children 
dashed  up  the  hill. 

"Brother  Braxton's  comin',''  they  cried.  "He's 
jest  comin'  round  ther  bend." 

At  the  news  the  men  got  up  from  the  grass,  shaking 
themselves  together,  and  brushing  off  their  coats. 

"You  all  sorter  keep  yer  eyes  peeled  an'  be  ready  ef 
anything  happens,"  Hedrick  said  quickly  to  Orin 
Snyder  and  Adrian.  "We  don't  want  ter  hev  er  fight 
here  with  all  these  women  folks  an'  kids,  an'  Brother 
Braxton's  last  Sunday  too.  I  don't  hardly  b'lieve 
Dave'll  know  him  though,  hit's  been  so  long,  an'  he 
was  so  little  anyhow.  But  jest  ther  same  you  all 
mind  out  an'  be  ready." 

And  somehow,  when  they  all  trooped  into  the 
schoolhouse,  Hedrick  and  Orin  Snyder  managed  to  be 
in  front  of  Kip,  so  that  when  David,  who  was  sitting 
almost  at  the  front  of  the  house,  looked  around  he  saw 
only  two  men  from  Whitcomb's  mill  whom  he  did  not 
know;  and  turning  around  again  at  something  Mary 
whispered,  he  failed  to  see  another  man  settle  to  a  seat 
between  the  other  two. 

Brother  Braxton  made  his  way  to  the  front  of  the 
room,  shaking  hands  here  and  there  with  prominent 
members  of  his  flock  as  he  passed. 

Arrived  at  the  table,  he  dropped  to  his  knees  for  a 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

moment's  prayer  beside  it,  and  in  front  of  the  black 
board's  dark  expanse,  upon  which  there  still  remained, 
as  relics  of  the  past  school  term,  a  neatly  worked  out 
sum,  and  the  word  Peace,  done  in  elaborately  shaded 
letters,  and  unconscious  irony,  by  the  last  teacher;  left 
by  her  to  stand  through  the  summer  months  and  be 
obliterated  in  the  autumn  when  the  new  teacher  would 
break  that  vacation  truce  with  the  first  engagement  of 
the  renewed  warfare  of  education. 

"You  will  please  sing  a  selection,"  Brother  Braxton 
said,  rising  from  his  knees,  and  mopping  his  forehead 
exhaustively;  and  one  felt  it  was  with  difficulty  he  re 
frained  from  adding  the  usual  interrogation  of  the 
day  —  "Ain't  it  awful  warm?" 

At  his  bidding  there  was  a  general  flutter  of  hymn 
books,  and  then  after  a  short  pause  Ellen  Daw,  who 
had  now  moved  up  to  the  front  bench  among  the  rest 
of  the  women  who  sang,  lifted  her  voice  in  the  Corona 
tion  hymn.  One  line  she  sang  through  by  herself, 
but  at  the  next  the  rest  of  the  congregation  struck  in 
tumultuously,  almost  shouting  out  the  words,  for  it 
was  a  hymn  popular  with  all.  But  through  all  the 
volume  of  other  voices  Ellen's  was  never  lost,  or  ob 
scured,  but  soared  on  like  a  stream  of  golden  light, 
strong  and  unafraid.  And  as  she  sang  she  was  no 
longer  Ellen  Daw,  the  lonely  girl  from  Drupe  Moun 
tain,  in  poorer  clothes  than  any  one  else  present;  she 
was  anything  and  everything  that  she  pleased  to  imagine 
herself.  She  was  Mary  Reddin,  in  her  dainty  muslin, 
with  David  Cree  beside  her.  Nay,  she  was  more. 

194 


THE  MEETING 

She  was  a  streak  of  sunlight,  she  was  the  blown  clouds 
of  a  summer  day;  the  light  breeze  that  shimmers  the 
tender  green  of  the  forest;  the  bubble  of  spring  waters; 
the  perfume  of  the  woods  in  May ;  the  leaping  red  tongue 
of  a  forest  fire.  She  was  any  and  all  of  the  things  of 
ethereal  loveliness  that  she  knew,  and  she  was  akin 
and  in  answer  to  all  the  rest  of  the  beauty  in  the  world. 
She  was  loosed  from  all  her  hard  fetters  of  reserve; 
she  was  transformed  and  awakened;  she  was  recreated 
and  free.  And  all  because  she  was  doing  the  one  thing 
in  the  world  that  she  could  do  surely  and  well,  and 
with  delight  to  herself  and  to  others,  and  in  doing  it  she 
was  born  again.  For  in  each  of  us  is  hid  some  secret 
treasure  of  ability,  be  it  ever  so  humble;  and  when  we 
find  that  ability,  we  find  one  of  the  doors  to  our  souls; 
and  with  the  finding  of  our  own  souls,  we  find  God. 

More  than  one  person  that  Sunday  morning  stopped 
singing  themselves  that  they  might  catch  the  better 
the  beauty  of  Ellen's  notes.  And  as  Mary  Reddin 
listened  to  her,  she  let  her  hand  steal  down  under  cover 
of  the  desk  in  front  of  her,  and  just  touched  David's. 

Adrian  Blair  at  the  back  of  the  schoolhouse  silenced 
his  own  exceedingly  good  tenor  voice,  and  fixed  his 
eyes  on  Ellen's  face  during  all  the  singing  of  the  hymn, 
and  when  it  came  to  an  end  he  drew  a  long  breath. 

After  the  singing  and  the  following  prayer  and  read 
ing  of  the  scripture,  Lloyd  Johnson,  as  one  of  the  church 
elders,  rose  solemnly,  and  with  a  conscientious  air  of 
self-importance  took  up  the  collection.  He  took  it 
up  in  his  own  Sunday  hat  of  black  felt,  and  not  the 


THE  SOWING   OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

least  person  in  all  the  congregation  was  slighted,  and 
for  once  one  felt  that  his  solemn  make-up  was  in  its 
element,  and  that  for  the  taking  up  of  the  collection 
in  the  Jumping  Creek  Draft  he  had  been  destined 
since  babyhood  —  nay,  for  this  consummation  had 
even  been  born  into  the  world.  It  was  a  lengthy 
process,  for  more  than  one  good  lady,  having  nothing 
less  than  a  quarter  or  fifty-cent  piece,  looked  doubt 
fully  into  the  hat  at  the  meagreness  of  the  amount 
already  collected,  shaking  her  head  and  holding  up 
the  coin  to  indicate  how  much  change  she  required; 
whereat  the  hat  was  passed  on,  to  be  brought  back  to 
her  every  now  and  again  to  see  if  it  yet  could  give 
sufficient  returns  to  justify  her  putting  in  her  half 
dollar  and  taking  out  most  of  what  the  hat  contained. 
Finally,  however,  the  last  fifty-cent  piece  or  quarter 
was  successfully  negotiated  for,  and  every  one  in  the 
congregation  had  had  the  refusal  of  the  hat,  even  to 
those  upon  the  last  and  most  inaccessible  benches; 
and  Johnson,  placing  the  contribution  upon  the  table 
at  Brother  Braxton's  elbow,  sighed  with  a  conscious 
air  of  duty  well  performed,  nor  did  he  perceive  that 
his  zeal  had  even  collected  from  some  dark  corner  a 
stray  trouser  button  which  disported  itself  brazenly 
and  unashamed  in  the  midst  of  the  worthy  assembly 
of  the  honest  coin  of  the  realm. 

Brother  Braxton,  with  one  last  and  extremely 
thorough  mopping  of  his  brow,  rose  and  began  his 
onslaught  upon  the  sermon. 

Many  of  the  younger  children  put  their  heads  down 
196 


THE  MEETING 

upon  the  desks  in  front  of  them,  or  —  if  their  dimen 
sions  were  extremely  short  —  down  upon  older  sister 
or  mother's  lap,  and  went  serenely  to  sleep,  undis 
turbed  by  the  fervour  of  oratory  poured  forth  above 
them. 

The  sermon  was  a  long  one,  but  it  was  also  a  good 
one,  and  reached  more  than  one  of  the  listeners;  and 
when  it  was  over,  and  the  preacher  concluded  with  a 
few  words  of  farewell  to  the  people  of  the  Draft, 
touched  by  honest  regret,  there  was  scarcely  one  among 
the  older  women  present  who  did  not  have  recourse 
to  her  pocket  handkerchief,  and  many  of  the  men  as 
well  sniffed  in  sympathy. 

"And  now,"  Brother  Braxton  concluded,  "you  will 
please  sing,  'God  be  with  you  till  we  meet  again,' 
during  which  I  hope  my  friends  will  come  forward 
and  shake  me  by  the  hand  in  leave-taking." 

Again  Ellen  Daw's  voice  rose,  and  the  rest  of  the  con 
gregation  followed  her  into  the  old  hymn  of  farewell, 
"God  be  with  you  till  we  meet  again";  sung  over  and 
over,  while  different  members  of  the  church  went  for 
ward  with  solemn  faces  and  shook  hands  with  their 
departing  pastor.  He  stood  in  a  rapt  posture,  with 
closed  eyes  and  extended  hand,  and  body  that  swayed 
faintly  back  and  forth  in  time  to  the  singing  voices. 

David  Cree's  little  sister  Ellie,  seated  upon  a  front 
bench  beside  her  dearest  friend,  Sadie  Snyder,  regarded 
the  whole  performance  with  deep  awe  and  excitement. 
Child  though  she  was,  she  had  a  quick  sense  for  the 
dramatic,  and  loved  to  be  stirred  and  have  her  feelings 

197 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

played  upon,  and  the  unusualness  of  the  proceedings 
—  for  she  was  not  old  enough  to  have  been  present 
at  any  of  the  farewells  of  the  preachers  that  had  gone 
before  —  stimulated  and  aroused  her. 

"I'm  ergoin'  up  an'  shake  hands  with  him  myself," 
she  whispered  to  Sadie. 

"Oh!  you  dassent!"  that  demure  little  maiden 
answered,  scandalized.  It  was  probably  this  very 
demureness  and  susceptibility  to  shock  which  made 
her  Ellie's  dearest  friend;  for  if  one  is  going  to  under 
take  daring  things,  it  is  almost  necessary,  and  always 
pleasant,  to  have  an  easily  agitated  audience  in  attend 
ance. 

"I  dare  too,"  Ellie  returned,  rising  firmly  to  her 
feet,  and  shaking  out  her  short  skirts.  The  little 
friend  voiced  no  further  remonstrance.  As  in  duty 
bound  she  had  made  her  conservative  protest,  and 
now,  if  Ellie  still  persisted,  it  was  delightful  to  sit  by 
with  a  clear  conscience  and  see  what  transpired. 

Ellie  looked  around  cautiously.  Her  mother  not 
being  present  it  behooved  her  to  have  an  eye  to  objec 
tions  from  older  sister  or  brother.  David  was  safe 
enough  as  he  looked  nowhere  but  at  Mary  Reddin. 
Her  older  sister,  Susan,  was  just  on  the  point  of  going 
forward  herself,  and  awaited  her  turn  in  the  line  directly 
in  front  of  Ellie  with  safely  turned  back.  Fate  seemed 
in  every  way  propitious,  and  with  a  last  flirt  to  her 
skirts  she  slipped  out  into  the  aisle  behind  her  sister. 

Her  heart  beat  high  with  excitement,  and  delicious 
little  thrills  ran  up  and  down  her  back.  She  was  the 

198 


THE  MEETING 

only  child  who  had  ventured  to  go  forward,  and  what 
would  happen  to  her  for  doing  so  was  to  her  mind 
stimulatingly  uncertain.  What  was  it  to  be  put  out 
of  the  church  ?  Would  they  do  that  to  her  ?  She  was 
very  near  now  —  just  her  sister  to  shake  hands  and 
then  would  come  her  turn  —  and  what  would  happen  ? 
Oh!  but  it  was  inspiring  and  delightful! 

Then  the  whole  line  rippled  forward  a  step,  and  she 
was  directly  before  Brother  Braxton.  With  a  thrill 
she  put  out  her  tiny  hand  and,  laying  it  in  his  large 
palm,  shut  her  eyes  for  the  skies  to  fall. 

Her  hand  was  shaken  kindly  up  and  down  twice, 
and  in  another  moment  she  was  pushed  out  of  the  way 
to  make  room  for  the  next  comer  —  and  it  was  over ! 

And  that  was  all!  No  sudden  thunder-bolt!  No 
gasp  of  surprised  horror  from  the  congregation!  Just 
—  nothing. 

Ellic  came  back  to  her  seat  by  the  expectant  little 
friend,  infinitely  crestfallen. 

"Tain't  nothin'  ter  do  after  all!"  she  said,  her  bubble 
of  excitement  pricked,  and  she  nothing  more  than 
Ellie  Cree,  her  every-day  self,  sitting  on  a  bench  in  an 
all  too  familiar  schoolhouse. 

The  last  person  had  shaken  hands;  the  singing 
ceased,  and  Brother  Braxton  opened  his  eyes. 

"Let  us  pray,"  he  said;  and  in  the  confusion  of  the 
general  kneeling  down,  he  cast  his  eye  over  the  congre 
gation  for  a  suitable  person  to  call  upon. 

"Brother  David  Cree,  please  lead  us  in  prayer," 
he  said  at  length,  somewhat  to  the  surprise  of  all,  for 

199 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

David  had  only  joined  the  church  the  previous  autumn. 
But  it  was  Brother  Braxton's  habit  to  encourage  the 
younger  members,  and  perhaps,  too,  something  of 
David's  expression  had  inspired  the  preacher  to  select 
him. 

Surprised  though  he  was,  David  knelt  down  obedi 
ently,  untouched  by  embarrassment,  and  with  a  cer 
tain  feeling  of  gladness  that  on  the  crowning  day  of  his 
happiness  it  should  be  given  him,  with  his  sweetheart 
beside  him,  to  voice  the  gratitude  in  his  heart  for  the 
joy  and  the  glory  that  had  come  to  him. 

Turning  around  that  he  might  kneel  the  more  easily 
between  the  cramped  benches,  he  put  his  head  upon 
the  back  of  the  seat,  and  free  from  self -consciousness 
poured  out  his  thanksgiving.  The  words  themselves 
were  clumsy,  and  the  sentences  awkward,  and  oft 
repeated  ones,  but  back  of  the  empty  make-up  of  speech 
was  the  vital  spark  of  a  man  in  the  presence  of  his 
Creator.  And  the  spirit  spoke  through  the  dead 
words,  and  awoke  in  the  wornout  phrases  a  freshness 
and  fullness  of  life  that  flung  them  forth  recreated  and 
enriched  by  the  vital  essence  of  all  things;  so  that  his 
prayer  found  a  quick  answer  in  the  hearts  of  many  of 
his  hearers  —  for  a  man  cannot  come  honestly  into 
the  presence  of  God,  and  some  of  the  rest  of  mankind 
not  be  gladly  aware  of  it. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause  over  the  congregation 
as  David  concluded  his  petition,  and  rose  to  his  feet. 
In  that  moment  he  stood  up  straight  and  tall  among 
them,  his  face  exalted  and  alight  with  emotion;  beside 

200 


THE   MEETING 

him  the  fulfilment  of  his  love,  and  all  about  him 
faces  of  his  friends,  all  touched  in  that  moment  it 
seemed  to  him,  because  of  his  own  exaltation,  with 
the  fire  of  God's  spirit.  From  one  familiar  face  to 
another  his  eyes  travelled  joyously  over  the  congrega 
tion,  and  then  —  then  suddenly  they  came  full  upon 
the  face  of  Kip  Ryerson  —  and  with  the  meeting  of 
their  eyes  he  knew  him.  For  one  astounded  mo 
ment  David  was  still,  and  in  that  second  in  his  revul 
sion  of  feeling  it  was  as  though  the  whole  ocean  had 
rolled  over  him.  Then  like  a  flash  of  lightning  the 
uplifted  look  on  his  face  went  out,  and  with  a  hoarse 
scream,  a  blind  infuriated  animal,  he  flung  himself 
across  the  intervening  space  and  leaped  for  Ryer- 
son's  throat  —  his  eyes  flames,  and  his  lips  drawn 
back  from  clenched  teeth. 

With  a  crash  the  men  came  together,  and  all  was 
chaos.  A  struggling  heap  they  went  down  upon  the 
floor.  Benches  were  overthrown,  and  women  screamed 
in  an  agony  of  terror.  Three  men  kept  their  heads, 
and  those  three  —  George  Hedrick,  Orin  Snyder,  and 
Adrian  Blair  —  threw  themselves  upon  David,  and 
after  a  struggle  tore  him  off  his  prey. 

Ryerson  staggered  waveringly  to  his  feet,  a  limp  rag 
of  a  man  with  panic  in  his  eyes. 

"Take  him  offer  me  —  keep  him  erway!  I  ain't 
done  nothin'!"  he  panted,  almost  sobbing  with  fear. 

"You  git  cleared  outer  here,  quick  es  you  know 
how";  Adrian  Blair  warned  him  between  gasps,  for 
David  was  threshing  him  back  and  forth,  striving  to 

201 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

get  his  arm  free;  and  with  one  terror-stricken  look  into 
that  wild-beast  face,  Ryerson  obeyed,  and  fled  stum- 
blingly  from  the  schoolhouse.  As  David  saw  him  go 
beyond  his  reach  he  leaped  upon  the  arms  that  sur 
rounded  him  like  an  imprisoned  bull.  But  still  the 
three  held  on. 

With  a  quick  twist  he  turned  upon  Adrian  Blair, 
mad  with  fury. 

"Let  me  go!  Let  me  go!  Damn  you,"  he  cried, 
beside  himself  with  anger  and  struggling  passionately. 
With  a  violent  effort  he  wyrenched  his  arm  away,  and 
struck  the  other  full  upon  the  mouth.  Adrian  went 
down  flat  before  the  blow,  but  with  the  spring  of  a 
cat  he  was  on  his  feet  again  in  an  instant,  his  face 
dead  white  and  his  eyes  all  at  once  become  very  dan 
gerous.  Clinching  his  fists  he  squared  himself  before 
David. 

"All  right,  Dave  Cree,"  he  said  in  a  low  cool  voice; 
"ef  yer  want  ter  fight  somebody,  come  on,  I'll  take 
yer." 

"Lord!"  gasped  Hedrick,  still  clinging  manfully  to 
David's  left  arm  as  Orin  dived  for  his  released  right. 
"Ef  Dave  an'  Adrian  gits  ter  fightin'  now  I'll  jest 
plum  giv'  up." 

But  at  that  moment,  through  the  circle  of  men, 
there  burst  Mary's  little  pink-clad  figure,  and  flung 
itself  upon  David. 

"O  Dave,  Dave!"  she  sobbed.  "Don't!  Come 
home  with  me  —  oh!  please  come  home,  honey!" 

At  her  touch  David  ceased  struggling  suddenly,  and 
202 


THE  MEETING 

stood  still.  His  breath  came  in  great  sobs,  his  face 
was  flushed,  with  blood-shot  eyes,  and  his  hair  was 
wildly  dishevelled.  He  stood  looking  about  him  like 
a  bewildered  enraged  animal,  turning  his  head  slowly 
from  side  to  side,  in  search  of  an  escape  from  the  in 
furiating  circle  of  arms. 

Adrian  Blair  turned  and  walked  out  of  the  school- 
house;  and  that  he  did  not  return  David's  blow  was 
an  evidence  of  self-control  upon  which  he  prided  him 
self  for  many  a  long  day. 

"Come,  honey!  Come!"  Mary  begged  feverishly, 
putting  his  hat  into  his  hands,  and  drawing  her  hand 
through  his  arm  with  almost  a  mother's  gesture. 

At  her  words  and  touch  again  David  looked  down 
at  her  as  though  waking  from  a  dream,  and  a 
little  of  the  bewildered  wild- animal  look  lifted  from 
his  face. 

"Come  on  home  with  me,  sweetheart,  come,"  Mary 
whispered  again,  in  an  agony,  and  scarcely  knowing 
what  he  did,  yet  recognizing  the  touch  of  her  hand 
upon  his  arm,  David  turned  obediently  toward  the 
door. 

At  this  moment  Brother  Braxton  saw  fit  to  approach 
with  pacific  intentions. 

"My  brother  —  my  brother!"  he  began  porten 
tously.  But  George  Hedrick  hastily  interposed,  warn 
ing  him  off. 

"I  wouldn't  go  er  stirrin'  him  up  ergin  now  jest  es 
he's  gettin'  sorter  ca'med  down,"  he  whispered  ner 
vously. 

203 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

"I  ain't  stirrin'  him  up,"  the  other  answered  indig 
nantly,  "I'm  srnoothin'  him  down!" 

"Stirrin'  up  er  srnoothin'  down  comes  ter  erbout  ther 
same  thing  when  yer  mad  clear  through  an'  ready  ter 
fight  yer  friends,"  Hedrick  answered  with  conviction, 
skilfully  manoeuvring  to  keep  his  small  person  be 
tween  David  and  the  would-be  pacificator;  and  un 
heeding  him,  with  Mary  still  clinging  to  his  arm,  David 
went  down  the  steps  of  the  schoolhouse  and  turned 
along  the  path,  walking  with  unseeing  eyes,  stunned  by 
the  sudden  stupendous  revolution  in  his  world  and  by 
the  blinding  fury  of  his  own  passion. 


204 


CHAPTER  XIV 

ADRIAN   BLAIR   FLINGS    DOWN   HIS    GLOVE 

As  a  bend  in  the  path  hid  David  and  Mary  from  the 
schoolhouse  windows,  George  Hedrick  mopped  his 
forehead  in  relief,  and  sank  down  exhaustedly  upon 
one  of  the  benches. 

"Gee!"  he  panted.  "I  feel  like  I'd  been  dragged 
ter  ther  wood-pile  and  chopped  up!"  He  felt  himself 
all  over  carefully,  nursing  a  strained  wrist  with  especial 
tenderness. 

The  congregation  stood  about  in  agitated  knots,  dis 
cussing  the  occurrence,  and  endeavouring  to  steady 
their  nerves  into  every-day  trim  once  more.  Mothers 
calmed  frightened  children,  and  husbands  reasoned 
with  hysterically  inclined  wives,  while  more  than  one 
beau  of  the  Draft  found  the  role  of  comforter  to  fright 
ened  beauty  an  interesting  and  fascinating  one  to  play; 
nor  did  beauty  seem  adverse  to  comfort  when  offered 
in  the  reassuring  tones  of  a  manly  voice,  which  protested 
that  no  harm  could  possibly  come  to  that  particular 
owner  of  beauty  while  that  particular  owner  of  the 
said  manly  voice  was  at  hand  —  No,  not  ef  all  ther 
Dave  Crees  and  Kip  Ryersons  in  ther  world  was  ter 
git  tergither! 

205 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

"Great  Day!"  George  Hedrick  took  up  his  com 
plaint  once  more;  "yer  don't  ketch  this  here  feller  ever 
comin'  betwixt  Dave  Cree  an'  anybody  he's  er  mind 
ter  kill  ergin.  Ef  he's  got  ter  kill  somebody  hit  might 
jest  as  well  be  ther  feller  he  sets  out  after,  stead  er  a 
gentleman  that  happens  ter  be  in  ther  way  like  myself. 
Doggone  hit!"  he  lamented;  "why  ain't  I  got  er  wife 
ter  keep  me  out  er  trouble?  When  Dave  was  er 
threshin'  me  round  that  erway,  I  wouldn't  er  got  this 
sprained  wrist  ef  I'd  jest  hed  er  wife  ter  come  up  an' 
smooth  me  down  an'  say.  'Now  George,  honey,  this 
ain't  none  er  your  bizness  —  yer  jest  git  outer  this  an' 
come  home  with  me  an'  rock  ther  cradle.'  I'd  er  bin 
powerful  glad  er  some  excuse  like  that  to  er  turned 
Dave  loose.  How'd  you  stan'  hit,  Orin?"  he  ques 
tioned,  turning  upon  his  fellow  sufferer. 

"Oh!  I'm  all  right,"  the  big  man  returned  placidly. 
"Kind  er  jarred  up  inside,  but  that's  all." 

Hedrick  regarded  his  goodly  proportions  enviously. 

"You've  got  more  heft  ter  yer'n  I  hev,  an'  don't 
shake  so  easy,"  he  said.  "Golly!"  he  continued, 
"but  I  was  skeered  Ed  an'  Bud  Cree'd  pitch  in  an' 
help  Dave.  Where  was  they  anyhow?" 

"Robert  Reddin  an'  some  other  fellers  got  'em 
sorter  penned  up  in  one  corner,  an'  kep'  'em  quiet,  an' 
then  ther  sister  got  'em  ter  go  on  home  with  her,  when 
Mary  got  Dave  ca'med.  I  don't  b'lieve  they  knowed 
jest  what  ther  trouble  was  no  way,  an'  anyhow  they 
ain't  very  keen  fellers  ter  fight,"  one  of  the  bystanders 
volunteered. 

206 


ADRIAN  BLAIR  FLINGS   DOWN  HIS   GLOVE 

"Well,  wished  I  bed  er  sister  seein's  I  ain't  got  er 
wife  ter  keep  me  outer  trouble."  Hedrick  sighed,  re 
turning  to  his  first  grievance  and  still  coddling  his 
injured  wrist.  "But  tell  yer  what,  fellers,"  he  said, 
suddenly  dropping  his  voice  and  looking  around  to 
see  that  there  were  no  Crees  left  in  the  schoolhouse  to 
overhear  him,  "hit's  er  mercy  Judy  Cree  herself  wa'n't 
here.  Ther  wouldn't  er  bin  much  smooth  in'  down,  I 
bet  yer,  ef  she'd  bin  here  an'  seed  Kip.  She'd  er  sicked 
ther  whole  pack  on  him  —  I  b'lieve  'pon  my  soul  she 
would.  An'  ef  she  had,  by  ther  time  Dave  and  Ed 
an'  Bud  got  finished  with  him  ther  wouldn't  er  bin  er 
piece  er  Kip  Ryerson  left  big  ernough  ter  be  worth 
puttin'  in  er  crazy  quilt.  I  ain't  looked  at  Judy  Cree's 
face  fer  ther  las'  ten  years  not  ter  know  that  much," 
he  concluded  with  conviction. 

"Well,  my  brother,"  said  Brother  Braxton  solemnly, 
as  he  prepared  to  take  his  departure,  "let  us  be  thank 
ful  that  it  is  now  over,  and  grieve  in  our  hearts  that  the 
peace  of  this  blessed  Sabbath  day  should  have  been  so 
violently  broken." 

" Over!"  said  Hedrick  under  his  breath  as  he  watched 
the  preacher  go  down  the  steps  and  out  into  the  hot 
sunshine.  "Over!  This  here  little  difficulty,  in  my 
opinion,  wont  be  over  as  long  as  Kip  an'  Dave's  both 
erlive." 

At  the  schoolhouse  door,  after  the  preacher's  safe 
departure,  as  each  man  made  his  appearance  he  was 
met  and  challenged  by  Adrian  Blair. 

"Any  feller  want  ter  fight?"  he  inquired  genially. 
207 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

"I'll  fight  ther  whole  shootin'  match  singly  er  in  pairs. 
Aw  come  on,  somebody!" 

His  eyes  were  alight  with  the  joyous  intoxication  of 
combat,  and  he  was  wild  for  more.  "Want  ter  fight?" 
he  persisted,  squaring  himself  with  clinched  fists  in 
front  of  Hedrick  and  Snyder  as  they  made  their  appear 
ance  together.  The  storekeeper  paused  and  regarded 
his  whole  excited  personality  for  a  long  minute  in 
infinite  disgust. 

"No,  I  don't  want  ter  fight,"  he  returned  disdain 
fully.  "An'  Orin  don't  want  ter  neither,  so  yer  needn't 
go  ter  foolin'  with  him.  An'  what's  more  I'd  think  ter 
look  at  yer  mouth  yer'd  hed  ernough  fightin'  yerself." 

Adrian  put  his  hand  to  his  swollen  lip  nonchalantly. 
"  Jest  tastes  like  more,"  he  declared,  sparring  scientifi 
cally  before  them. 

"Gee!"  he  exclaimed;  "but  I'd  er  give  everything 
I  own  jest  ter  er  hit  Dave  back  ergin.  But  I  kep'  from 
doin'  hit,"  he  added  with  complacency.  Hedrick 
snorted. 

"  You  kep'  from  doin'  hit,"  he  cried.  "  Mary  Reddin 
kep'  yer  from  doin'  hit,  yer  mean.  An'  I  kin  tell  yer  this 
much  right  now,  Adrian  Blair,  whatever  else  yer  may 
do  you'll  never  make  yer  fortune  as  er  peacemaker." 

"An'  ef  I  hed  er  hit  Dave  back,"  Adrian  went  on, 
ignoring  the  other,  and  his  eyes  dancing  at  the  idea, 
"we'd  er  hed  one  er  ther  prettiest  fights  this  Draft  ever 
seed;  an'  hit  would  er  took  more'n  you  an'  Orin  ter  git 
us  separated." 

"Yer  wouldn't  er  hed  me  tryin'  ter  git  Dave  offen 
208 


ADRIAN  BLAIR  FLINGS   DOWN  HIS   GLOVE 

you,"  the  storekeeper  returned  contemptuously;  "one 
less  fool  in  ther  world  wouldn't  er  worried  me  none. 
But  ef  yer  was  so  full  er  fight,  whyn't  yer  take  after 
Kip?" 

"I  did  f oiler  him  er  right  smart  little  piece  up  ther 
road,  an'  hollered  er  thing  er  so  ter  him,  but  onct  he  got 
started  chain  lightnin'  wouldn't  er  caught  him.  An' 
from  ther  way  he  run  I  sorter  think  Dave  must  er 
skeered  him  up  right  bad  when  he  lit  on  him  all  ter 
onct  that  erway.  Oh!  but  Gee!"  he  cried  again,  "I 
jest  wish  hit  had  er  bin  me  Dave  jumped  on";  and  for 
want  of  a  better  antagonist  he  doubled  up  his  fist  and 
struck  the  schoolhouse  door  a  tremendous  blow,  mak 
ing  thereby  a  considerable  dent  in  it. 

George  Hedrick,  who  had  started  on,  paused  at  this 
demonstration,  and  turned  round. 

"Now  let  me  tell  yer  somethin',  young  feller,"  he 
said  warningly.  "You'll  keep  on  till  you'll  git  yerself 
inter  trouble  ef  yer  don't  mind  out.  An'  jest  now 
yer're  ther  best  imitation  of  er  fool  thet  I  most  ever 
seed." 

What  Adrian  might  have  returned  to  this  hardly 
complimentary  remark  in  his  present  state  of  exhilara 
tion  is  questionable,  had  he  not  been  diverted  just 
then  by  the  appearance  of  Ellen  Daw.  She  was  almost 
the  last  to  leave  the  schoolhouse,  and  she  slipped 
quietly  down  the  steps,  hoping  now  to  make  her  escape 
unobserved;  but  the  moment  he  caught  sight  of  her 
Adrian  drew  himself  up  and  took  off  his  hat  with  a 
flourish. 

209 


THE   SOWING   OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

"May  I  have  ther  pleasure  of  yer  company  home?" 
he  said,  bowing  grandly. 

"I  ain't  goin'  home,  I'm  goin'  down  ther  road  ter 
A'nt  Mary  Thompkins',"  she  answered  shrinkingly, 
her  eyes  downcast,  and  very  conscious  of  the  ripple 
of  laughter  his  elaborate  bow  and  request  had  occa 
sioned  among  the  group  of  young  men,  who,  fail 
ing  themselves  to  secure  girls  to  walk  home  with,  still 
loitered  about  the  schoolhouse.  None  of  them,  Ellen 
knew  very  well,  would  ever  have  asked  her,  and  she 
was  bitterly  hurt  that  Adrian  should  thus  make  her 
their  laughing  stock.  Adrian,  too,  heard  the  titter,  and 
spun  swiftly  round  upon  the  group,  his  eyes  on  fire,  and 
clenching  his  fists  danced  joyously  up  to  them. 

"Now  then!"  he  cried,  "any  feller  here  ready  ter 
take  up  my  offer?  Ef  he  wants  er  fight  all  he  has  ter 
do  is  jest  ter  snicker  onct  more!" 

He  paused  in  front  of  them  hopefully,  but  each  one 
of  the  group  turned  away  with  a  suddenly  calmed  and 
preoccupied  air  and  an  expression  of  being  deeply 
concerned  with  thoughts  infinitely  distant  from  their 
present  surroundings  —  for  next  to  David  Cree,  Adrian 
was  the  strongest  man  in  the  Draft,  and  was  by  far  the 
readiest  fighter  for  miles  around. 

He  paused  for  a  short  space  before  them,  and  then, 
as  no  one  took  up  his  challenge,  he  turned  disap 
pointedly  back  to  Ellen. 

"I  don't  keer  which  erway  yer  goin',"  he  said  politely, 
placing  himself  beside  her,  and  taking  up  easily  the 
somewhat  broken  thread  of  conversation;  "up  ther 

2TO 


ADRIAN  BLAIR  FLINGS  DOWN  HIS   GLOVE 

road  or  down  ther  road's  all  ther  same  ter  me  so  'long 
es  I'm  in  yer  company";  and  at  the  words  he  cocked 
one  bright,  defiant  eye  at  the  spectators  to  catch  even 
a  baby  chuckle  of  derision.  None  came,  however, 
and  with  an  airy  tread  just  touched  with  truculency,  he 
swung  down  the  hill  and  across  the  foot  log  by  Ellen's 
side,  and  with  her  turned  down  the  road  toward  Mrs. 
Thompkins'. 

Adrian  walked  with  a  buoyant  step,  and  every  now 
and  again  he  broke  into  a  gay  tune,  whistled  with  his 
usual  exuberant  shrillness. 

Ellen,  on  the  other  hand,  walked  with  downcast  eyes, 
in  which  were  almost  tears,  for  it  stung  her  shy  sen 
sitiveness  to  the  very  quick  to  have  been  made  so  con 
spicuous.  And  in  her  mind's  eye,  as  well,  she  could 
see  very  plainly  the  picture  of  her  own  shabby  self 
walking  down  the  road  by  Adrian,  and  she  would 
have  given  worlds  to  have  run  away  to  the  solitude  of 
her  mountain-top,  where  she  told  herself  bitterly  she 
belonged;  and  where  she  might  hide,  and  try  to  forget 
the  laughing  glances  that  the  other  couples  of  young 
people,  dotting  the  road  at  intervals,  bestowed  upon 
them  as  they  passed.  She  did  not  speak  as  they  went 
along,  but  maintained  a  cold  silence,  and  in  her  shrink 
ing  hurt  mood  she  almost  hated  the  gay  personality 
at  her  side,  with  whom  she  was  so  dully  out  of  tune, 
and  who  had  so  carelessly  chosen  to  bring  the  eyes  of 
everyone  upon  her.  Moreover,  her  agitation  and 
distress  for  Mary  and  David  served  to  strike  her  dumb 
as  well.  She  was  appalled  by  the  disaster  opening  so 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

suddenly  before  them  at  the  very  outset  of  their  splen 
did  happiness,  and  for  them,  and  for  her  own  wretched 
ness,  she  could  have  wept  bitter  tears. 

Silence,  however,  was  never  long  to  Adrian's  taste, 
and  breaking  off  in  the  midst  of  a  most  elaborate  suc 
cession  of  whistled  trills,  he  turned  to  her  with: 

"Well,  an'  what  did  yer  think  of  ther  scrap?  Did 
hit  skeer  yer?" 

"No,"  said  Ellen  dully,  "I  wa'n't  skeered." 

"No,  I  bet  yer  wa'n't,"  Adrian  said  suddenly  with 
admiration.  "I  don't  b'lieve  yer  ther  kind  ter  skeer 
easy.  I  mind  onct  at  school  when  we  was  all 
little,  my  ole  Tuke  an'  ernother  dog  got  ter  fightin' 
an'  all  ther  other  girls  was  skeered  most  ter  death,  an' 
hollered  an'  jumped  onter  ther  desks,  an'  run  ter 
ther  teacher  an'  all,  but  you  jest  pitched  right  in  an' 
helped  us  fellers  ter  git  'em  stopped.  Der  yer  'mem 
ber  of  hit?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered  in  the  same  indifferent  voice, 
"I  wa'n't  skeered  then,  an'  I  don't  know  when  I  ever 
was  skeered  till  one  evenin'  las'  week  when  I  was  er- 
comin'  home  long  erbout  dark  from  Linden." 

"An'  what  skeered  yer  then?"  Adrian  inquired. 

"Why,  when  I  got  'bout  ha'f  way  up  ther  mountain, 
all  ter  onct  I  heered  somethin'  comin'  jest  er  little 
piece  up  ther  road  'round  ther  next  bend,  an'  I  do'  know 
why,  but  hearin'  hit  jest  up  there  out  er  sight  skeered 
me  good.  Hit  all  seemed  so  kinder  lonesome  an' 
dark  an'  —  an'  kinder  far  erway  ef  anything  bad  was  ter 
come  erlong." 

212 


ADRIAN  BLAIR  FLINGS  DOWN  HIS  GLOVE 

"I  bet  hit  did!"  said  Adrian.  "What  was  hit  any 
how?" 

"Why,  when  hit  come  erround  ther  turn  I  seed  hit 
wa'n't  nothin'  but  er  man  —  hit  was  Kip  Ryerson,  but 
I  didn't  know  who  he  was  then.  He  was  drunk  an'  he 
jest  went  by  without  seein'  me,  sorter  blunderin'  an' 
stumblin'  erlong  an'  talkin'  ter  himself." 

"I  don't  wonder  you  was  skeered  out  in  ther  moun 
tains  all  alone;  an'  ef  I  was  you  I'd  mind  how  I  went 
erround  much  fer  er  spell  whilst  Kip's  in  these  parts. 
Though  really  I  don't  reckon  he'll  stay  round  here 
much  longer  after  that  everlastin'  skeer  Dave  give 
him." 

"Der  yer  reckon  Dave'll  go  fer  him  ergin?"  Ellen 
demanded  with  a  sudden  awakening  in  her  voice,  and 
her  cheeks  in  spite  of  herself  beginning  to  burn  with  a 
slow  scarlet. 

Looking  around  at  her  question,  Adrian  saw  the 
colour  come  into  her  face  and  noted  the  interest  in  her 
tone,  and  his  manner  grew  suddenly  cold. 

"Ef  I  was  Dave,"  he  answered,  "Kip  shouldn't  be 
let  ter  stay  in  this  Draft.  But  I  really  don't  know 
whether  Dave'll  keer  ter  tackle  him  ergin  er  not,"  and 
he  threw  into  the  last  words  an  intentional  scorn.  In 
stantly  anger  leaped  up  in  Ellen's  face  and  she  answered 
him  like  a  flash. 

"An'  ef  yer  think,  Adrian  Blair,  that  yer  er  better 
man  than  David  Cree,  I  kin  tell  yer  right  now  yer  mis 
taken,"  she  said. 

In  a  second  Adrian's  face  was  as  angry  as  her  own. 
213 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

"I  know  mighty  well  you  don't  think  any  man's 
equal  ter  Dave,"  he  flung  back. 

Ellen  stopped  still  in  the  road  and  faced  him 
proudly,  and  again,  as  in  the  corn-field,  her  shy  self- 
consciousness  was  forgotten  as  she  rose  to  her  own 
defence. 

"Adrian,"  she  said  compellingly ;  and  Adrian  also 
stood  still  and  looked  at  her.  "I  told  yer  once  yer 
shouldn't  speak  that  erway  ter  me,  an'  now  I  tell  yer 
ergin,"  she  said  low  and  warningly.  "An'  onless 
yer  kin  behave  like  yer  orter  yer  sha'n't  walk  ernother 
step  er  ther  way  with  me.  I  should  think,  anyhow," 
she  added  bitterly,  "that  yer'd  come  fer  ernough  now 
ter  satisfy  yer  foolin'  an'  ter  make  everybody  la'f  at  me 
er  plenty." 

Her  dark  face  before  him  was  quite  beautiful  as  the 
mingled  emotions  of  pride,  anger,  and  bitterness  went 
across  it,  and  Adrian  looked  at  her  with  unconcealed 
admiration. 

"I'm  awful  sorry,  Ellen,"  he  said  humbly.  "What 
I  said  slipped  out  without  my  thinkin',  an'  I  promise  not 
ter  do  hit  ergin.  Though,"  he  added  gaily,  his  anger 
all  melted  away,  and  his  serenity  returning,  "hit  was 
worth  sayin'  jest  ter  see  yer  git  so  mad."  At  his  laugh 
ing  tone,  which  was  half  teasing  and  half  admiring, 
Ellen  shrank  back  into  her  shy  awkwardness,  and  in  a 
moment  the  animation  died  from  her  face,  and  she 
was  the  same  stiff,  frightened  girl  with  averted  eyes, 
as  always;  and  though  Adrian  tried  several  topics  of 
conversation  hopefully,  he  succeeded  in  getting  nothing 

214 


ADRIAN  BLAIR  FLINGS   DOWN  HIS   GLOVE 

more  from  her  than  scant  monosyllables,  and  some 
times  not  even  that,  and  at  length  even  he  was  daunted, 
and  fell  into  an  uncomfortable  silence,  which  lasted 
until  they  came  to  Mrs.  Thompkins's,  where  he  took 
his  departure,  as  stiff  for  once  as  Ellen  herself. 


215 


CHAPTER  XV 

A  MATCH  FOR  LOVE 

MEANTIME  David  and  Mary  walked  home  together 
in  a  silence  which  was  half  bewilderment  on  David's 
part,  and  on  Mary's  was  dumb  terror.  They  took 
their  way  along  the  same  little  green  path  and  along 
the  same  pleasant  road  that  had  brought  them  to  the 
schoolhouse  such  a  few  short  hours  before;  and  it 
seemed  to  Mary  as  though  the  face  of  all  the  world  she 
knew  had  suddenly  been  darkened;  as  though  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye  the  gaiety  had  gone  out  of  life. 

She  had  not  recognized  Kip  Ryerson,  but  the  moment 
she  heard  his  name  flung  about  in  the  startled  crowd, 
she  had  known  in  a  flash  what  David's  sudden  spring 
meant,  and  in  the  same  flash  she  realized  all  that  it 
would  mean  to  her  —  for  since  childhood  she  had  been 
familiar  with  the  story  of  Alderson  Cree's  murder  and 
of  David's  promise. 

Under  her  gay  Sunday  hat  her  face  looked  tragically 
small  and  white,  and  every  now  and  again  a  little  ner 
vous  quiver  went  over  it,  yet  for  all  her  fear,  her  ex 
pression  showed  no  weakness ;  instead,  it  was  older  and 
stronger  than  it  had  ever  been,  and  she  kept  pace  be- 

216 


A  MATCH  FOR  LOVE 

side  David  with  a  firm,  even  step,  her  hand  lying  com- 
pellingly  on  his  arm  with  an  unshaken  pressure. 

Guided  by  her  touch,  David  walked  almost  unseeingly. 
His  eyes  were  on  the  ground  and  his  head  bent  forward, 
and  he  was  like  a  man  in  a  dream,  dazed  by  the  tumult 
of  his  own  stormy  emotions.  His  blood  raced  fever 
ishly  through  his  veins,  and  pounded  like  trip-hammers 
in  his  ears.  All  the  reasoning  power  of  his  thoughts 
was  gone,  and  the  thoughts  themselves  were  turned 
into  waves  of  tingling  emotion,  which  reeled  dis 
tractedly  through  his  brain  in  a  chaos  of  surprise, 
hatred,  passionate  anger;  the  physical  remembrance 
of  Ryerson's  writhing  body  under  him;  the  tumultuous 
struggle  with  the  men  who  tore  him  off,  and  again  his 
mad  anger;  and  all  this  tangle  and  mosaic  of  confused 
sensations  reeled  blindly  up  to,  and  culminated  in,  the 
touch  of  Mary's  hand  upon  his  arm,  her  delicate 
presence  standing  between  him  and  his  enemy,  her 
fearless  eyes  looking  into  his  face,  her  voice,  and  again 
her  hand  drawing  him  away.  And  as  all  his  emotions 
were  stirred  and  quickened  to  an  abnormal  degree,  so 
he  had  never  before  loved  her  with  such  an  intensity 
of  passion  —  never  so  overwhelmingly  loved,  and 
never  so  terribly  hated. 

Thus  in  silence  the  two  came  at  length  almost  to  the 
Reddins'  gate.  A  little  way  from  it  David  paused  a 
moment,  and  with  an  effort  threw  off  something  of  the 
overmastering  sick  confusion  under  which  his  brain 
was  giddy,  and  like  a  man  waking  from  a  trance  he 
looked  about  him  in  surprised  question.  Here  was  he 

217 


THE    SOWING   OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

at  the  Reddins'  gate,  and  what  power  had  brought 
him  down  the  road  when  the  man  he  hated  —  the  man 
who  had  murdered  his  father  —  had  fled  up  it  ? 

For  an  instant  he  stood  still,  realizing  his  surround 
ings  and  collecting  himself,  then  he  turned  slowly 
toward  Mary  and  took  both  her  hands  in  a  tight  grasp, 
looking  down  into  her  eyes,  and  in  silence  Mary  gave 
back  the  look. 

"Good-by  Mary  —  sweetheart,"  he  said  at  length, 
and  started  to  draw  his  hands  away,  but  Mary  caught 
them  suddenly  in  a  firm  grasp  of  her  own. 

"Where  aire  you  goin',  Dave?"  she  questioned,  in  a 
low  steady  voice,  though  fear  sat  in  her  eyes. 

"You  know  where  I'm  goin',"  he  said;  "you  know, 
Mary.  That  was  Kip  Ryerson  at  the  schoolhouse,  an' 
you  know  —  everybody  in  ther  Draft  knows  what  he 
done";  and  again  he  strove  to.  tear  himself  away. 
But  Mary  held  him  with  such  passionate  strength  that 
it  was  impossible  for  him  to  free  himself  without  hurt 
ing  her.  Her  face  was  very  close  and  her  eyes  looked 
into  the  depths  of  his. 

"David,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  hardly  more 
than  a  whisper,  yet  it  was  vehement  with  feeling, 
"David  Cree,  ef  yer  love  me  ther  least  little  bit  in  ther 
world,  you'll  wait  here  a  spell  and  think  things  over; 
yer  too  mad  now  ter  look  at  anything  straight.  Jest 
stay  —  O  Dave!  jest  stay  with  me  er  little,  little  spell!" 
she  begged  piteously.  "Can't  yer!  Oh!  can't  yer 
Dave?"  she  cried,  her  breath  warm  on  his  cheek  and 
her  eyes  beseeching  him. 

218 


A  MATCH  FOR  LOVE 

"I  can't,  I  can't,  honey!"  he  said  desperately  —  "I 
got  ter  go,  I  made  er  promise,  you  know  I  made  er 
promise,"  and  again  he  sought  to  release  himself,  but 
still  she  clung  to  him. 

"David,  do  yer  love  me?  Do  yer,  do  yer,  Dave?" 
she  cried  insistently. 

David  looked  down  one  moment  at  her  anguished 
face. 

"God  knows  I  do,  Mary,"  he  said  in  a  shaken  voice. 

"Then,"  she  cried,  "ef  yer  goin'  ter  giv'  yer  life  ter 
yer  hate,  can't  yer  giv'  yer  love  jest  one  little  hour? 
O  Dave,  Dave!  can't  yer?"  she  begged,  her  lips  almost 
against  his.  "Don't  giv'  yer  hate  everything,  giv'  yer 
love  one  little  hour,"  she  breathed. 

For  a  space  David  hesitated,  then  suddenly  the  full 
rush  of  his  passion  leaped  up,  and  turning  he  caught 
her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  hard  upon  the  lips. 

"Fer  an'  hour  I'll  wait,"  he  said. 

And  Mary  drew  a  long  exhausted  breath  and  freed 
herself  from  his  arms. 

"Come  into  ther  house,"  she  said  in  a  weary  voice. 
"I  reckon  dinner  must  be  most  ready." 

At  dinner,  David  ate  in  silence,  with  scarcely  a  word 
flung  into  the  general  conversation,  which  ran  along 
ordinary  topics  guided  there  by  Mary's  anxious  ma 
noeuvring,  aided  by  Mrs.  Reddin,  who  guessed  with 
a  quick  instinct  something  of  the  situation. 

The  heat  had  increased  and  the  atmosphere  was 
lifeless  and  oppressive  with  the  promise  of  the  approach 
ing  storm;  which,  with  the  remembrance  of  the  scene 

219 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

at  the  schoolhouse,  at  which  the  older  members  of  the 
family  had  been  present,  together  with  David's  sombre 
face,  all  combined  to  make  the  meal  one  of  embarrassed 
constraint.  Yet  for  all  that  they  sat  long  over  it,  de 
layed  by  Mary,  who  introduced  one  topic  after  another 
feverishly,  for  she  knew  instinctively  that  when  they 
rose  David  would  slip  away  from  her. 

At  length,  however,  even  she  could  detain  them  no 
longer,  and  her  father  pushed  back  his  chair  with  a 
decisive  scrape.  David  got  up,  and  leaving  the  kitchen 
abruptly,  went  through  the  small  living-room,  and  out 
to  the  porch. 

"I'm  goin'  now,  Mary,"  he  said,  turning  to  the  girl 
who  had  followed  him.  Without  a  word  she  turned 
back  quickly  into  the  house,  and  catching  up  her  sun- 
bonnet  reappeared  again. 

"I'm  goin'  er  piece  er  ther  way  with  yer,  Dave,"  she 
said  quietly. 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  but  in  the  end  made  no 
objection  or  comment;  and  together  they  went  down 
the  path  leading  to  the  yard  gate,  bordered  on  either 
side  with  the  fresh  brown  earth  where  Mary  had  hidden 
the  coxcombs,  bachelor's  buttons,  maid-in-the-mist, 
and  all  the  little  assembly  of  seeds  that  Martha  Lam- 
fire  had  given  her. 

David's  face  had  lost  its  surprised  bewilderment, 
but  its  quietness  of  determination  was  more  terrifying 
to  Mary  than  the  other  had  been. 

Outside  the  gate  he  wavered  a  moment,  and  finally 
turned  in  the  direction  of  the  path  leading  over  a  low 

220 


A  MATCH  FOR  LOVE 

ridge  of  Drupe  Mountain,  past  the  Hull  graveyard. 
The  same  path  that  Mary  had  taken  on  her  way  home 
from  Martha  Lamfire's. 

"I'm  goin'  by  ther  path,"  he  said;  "hit  strikes  inter 
ther  road  nearer  home  than  ther  lane." 

Relief  leaped  up  in  Mary's  eyes.  ' '  Yer  goin'  home  ? ' ' 
she  cried  gladly. 

"Yes  —  fer  my  gun,"  he  answered,  and  his  voice  was 
absent,  as  though  Mary's  presence  were  half  forgotten. 

For  a  moment  everything  went  dizzily  black  before 
the  girl's  eyes,  and  a  wave  of  sick  fear  engulfed  her; 
nevertheless  she  kept  bravely  on  by  his  side,  and  to 
gether  they  made  their  way  into  the  woods.  They 
walked  in  silence  until  they  gained  the  crest  of  the  hill, 
and  came  out  onto  the  level  spot  where  the  burying- 
ground  lies.  "Dave,"  Mary  said  wistfully,  as  they 
passed  it,  and  she  saw  the  withered  bridal  wreath  still 
lying  on  Amabel  Lamfire's  grave,  "Dave,  do  you 
remember  what  happened  here  last  week?" 

But  David  gave  no  reply,  and  looking  up  at  him 
Mary  saw  that  her  words  had  gone  unnoticed.  She 
felt  as  though  he  were  slipping  away  from  her;  as 
though  every  step,  though  she  kept  even  pace  with 
him,  was  dragging  them  miles  and  miles  apart.  She 
put  out  her  hand  desperately  and  took  hold  of  his, 
clinging  to  it;  for  somehow  she  realized  her  touch 
had  more  power  over  him  than  anything  else.  As  her 
hand  closed  on  his  David  came  back  a  little  from  his 
aloofness,  and  looked  down  at  her  with  a  faint  lighten 
ing  of  his  sombre  face. 

221 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

"What  was  hit  yer  said,  honey?"  he  asked. 

"Nothin,'  nothin',"  Mary  answered,  not  repeating 
her  words  for  she  knew  it  was  useless.  And  again 
they  fell  silent;  and  again  Mary  felt  the  distance  yawn 
between  them. 

At  length  they  came  to  the  last  fence,  where  the  path 
runs  out  into  a  steep  little  field,  and  so  down  to  the 
main  road  of  the  Draft,  which  here  it  overhangs. 

David  paused,  and  turned  to  Mary  resolutely. 

"Good-by,  swetheart,"  he  said  again,  as  he  had 
said  before  at  the  Reddins'  gate. 

"Wait,  wait,"  Mary  panted  feverishly.  "O  Dave! 
aire  yer  —  aire  yer  goin'  fer  Kip?" 

David  nodded,  looking  down  at  her.  "Yer  know  I 
am,  Mary,"  he  said  simply. 

"But,  Dave,"  she  faltered,  a  breathless  terror  in  her 
voice,  "they'll  hang  yer  fer  hit." 

David  still  looked  down  at  her  in  silence,  and  she 
saw  that  though  her  forebodings  might  be  true  it 
weighed  not  one  whit  with  him. 

She  was  like  a  little  tortured  bird  beating  its  wings 
against  its  cage  in  a  vain  endeavour  to  find  an  escape 
to  happiness.  And  at  length,  looking  into  his  stern 
face  from  which  the  tenderness  had  fled,  she  cried  in  a 
sort  of  poignant  astonishment  — 

"But,  Dave,  I  love  yer,  I  love  yer!" 

To  her  that  fact  outfaced  everything  else.  It  was 
the  one  great  event  of  her  existence  —  nay,  it  was  her 
existence.  And  it  seemed  to  her  stupendous  and  un 
believable  that  David  could  place  anything  before  it. 


A  MATCH  FOR  LOVE 

At  her  words  David  drew  her  to  him  tenderly,  and 
pushed  the  arching  waves  and  mists  of  shining  hair 
back  from  her  forehead. 

"Sweetheart,"  he  said  softly. 

But  there  was  still  that  fatal  aloofness  in  his  tone, 
and  with  senses  sharpened  by  dread  Mary  detected  it. 
Suddenly  she  sank  down  upon  her  knees  before  him, 
and  caught  both  his  hands  to  her  breast. 

"Dave!"  she  cried  again  desperately,  "I  love  yer!" 

She  felt  that  she  must  make  him  understand  that 
that  was  the  first  and  the  greatest  fact  —  the  only 
overmastering  reality  of  their  lives. 

"I  love  yer!  I  love  yer!"  she  repeated  wildly.  "O 
Dave,  I've  giv'  yer  all  myself.  Don't  yer  see  that  our 
love's  ther  greatest  thing,  an'  ther  only  thing?  O 
Honey !  ain't  hit  right  ter  put  love  before  hate  ?  Dave, 
I  love  yer.  You  —  you  don't  seem  ter  know  what  that 
means,  but  hit's  everything  ter  me  —  hit's  jest  every 
thing  I  am.  I  love  yer!  I  love  yer!  I  love  yer!" 

Passionately  she  fell  to  kissing  his  hands,  first  one 
and  then  the  other,  and  pressing  them  against  her 
breast,  while  she  looked  up  at  him  with  wide  terrified 
eyes,  shining  out  of  her  drawn  face.  Looking  down 
at  all  her  beauty  and  passion  of  love,  laid  at  his  feet, 
a  great  surge  of  emotion  went  over  David. 

"Mary,"  he  cried,  "I  love  ther  very  ground  yer  walk 
on !  But  I  can't  go  back  on  my  promise  —  don't  yer 
see  I  can't,  sweetheart?"  he  pleaded. 

"Yer  made  me  er  promise  this  very  mornin',"  she 
returned  in  a  low  stricken  voice.  "Yer  promised 

223 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

nothin'  shouldn't  never  come  betwixt  us  —  have  yer 
fergot  that  already,  Dave?" 

"God  knows  I  ain't  fergot,"  he  said.  "But  I  giv' 
ther  other  promise  first.  An'  ther  man  I  promised  hit 
to  died  with  me  givin'  him  my  word  I  wouldn't  fergit 
—  an'  I  giv'  hit  with  all  my  soul." 

"David,"  she  said,  "ef  yer  break  your  promise  ter 
me  hit'll  kill  me.  O  Dave!"  she  pleaded;  "put  yer 
love  before  yer  hate.  Hit  ought  ter  come  first  —  yer 
know  hit  ought."  Again  she  kissed  his  hands,  looking 
up  at  him  with  wet  beseeching  eyes. 

"Put  yer  love  first,"  she  whispered. 

David's  face  was  tortured  with  suffering,  neverthe 
less  he  spoke  steadily. 

"Mary,"  he  repeated,  "I  can't  go  back  on  my 
promise." 

At  his  words  the  tender  pleading  went  out  of 
Mary's  face,  and  she  got  to  her  feet  with  a  quick 
spring. 

"No"  she  said  low  and  fierce  —  "no,  yer  can't 
break  ther  promise  yer  made  ter  Alderson  Cree  ten 
years  ergo  —  er  bad,  wicked  promise  —  but  yer  can 
break  ther  one  yer  made  ter  me  jest  this  mornin'  easy 
ernough."  Her  tone  was  very  bitter  and  an  angry  proud 
look  settled  about  her  mouth.  "David  Cree,"  she 
said,  bending  close  to  him,  all  the  appealing  sweetness 
gone  out  of  her  face,  "I've  laid  my  very  heart  an'  soul 
at  your  feet  an'  you've  jest  tramped  on  'em.  Now 
listen  ter  me  onct  fer  all  —  ef  yer  kill  Kip  Ryerson  — 
no,  ef  yer  so  much  as  try  ter  kill  him,  yer  sha'n't  ever 

224 


A  MATCH  FOR  LOVE 

hev  me.  Do  yer  onderstan'?"  she  cried  vehemently, 
her  eyes  flaming. 

For  a  moment  she  looked  into  his  face,  her  own  dead 
white  —  then,  with  a  passionate  gesture,  she  flung  his 
hands  from  her,  and  bursting  into  bitter  sobs  she 
turned  and  ran  blindly  down  the  path  up  which  they 
had  just  come. 

David  stood  and  watched  her  go  with  a  doomed 
look  upon  his  face,  as  though  Fate  had  slammed  in 
exorable  doors  upon  him. 

Yet  the  woods  had  scarcely  lost  the  last  pink  flicker 
of  her  gown,  before  suddenly  they  gave  it  back  again, 
and  in  a  moment  she  flashed  forth  from  the  green 
bushes  and  fled  back  to  him,  flinging  her  arms  about 
his  neck  and  clinging  to  him  again. 

"  Dave,"  she  cried  distractedly,  "  Dave,  I  ain't  really 
mad,  I  ain't,  Dave!  But  ef  yer  —  ef  yer  keep  yer 
promise  yer'll  be  er  murderer.  An'  ef  yer  do  hit,  Dave 
—  ef  yer  do,  yer'll  kill  me!" 

She  lay  against  him  exhausted  and  panting,  and 
very  piteous,  the  hardness  and  anger  gone  from  her 
face,  and  all  the  tender  pleading  and  sweetness  come 
back  again. 

"Hit'll  kill  me  —  hit'll  jest  kill  me,"  she  whispered, 
gazing  up  at  him  like  a  pathetic  child,  tears  upon  her 
cheeks,  and  her  eyes  dark  with  terror.  And  looking 
at  her  for  the  first  time  David's  face  softened  with  a 
quiver  of  emotion,  and  he  made  a  quick  gesture,  as 
though  to  comfort  her  with  kisses.  But  the  next 
moment  he  checked  himself,  and  raising  his  hands  he 

225 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

unclasped  her  clinging  fingers,  and  putting  her  reso 
lutely  from  him,  without  a  word  he  climbed  over  the 
fence  and  went  slowly  down  the  hillside;  but  though 
he  went  firmly  and  steadily,  his  head  was  bent,  his  face 
was  haggard,  and  his  eyes  began  to  burn  with  an  almost 
distraught  light. 

Mary  stood  looking  after  his  retreating  figure  in  an 
utter  bewildered  stupefaction;  and  the  fact  that  in  spite 
of  everything,  in  spite  of  all  her  anguished  endeavour, 
and  her  agony  of  pleading,  in  the  end,  her  love  and 
David's,  that  had  seemed  just  that  morning  such  an 
overwhelmingly  strong  thing,  should  in  a  few  short 
hours  have  been  swept  aside  by  another  passion  as 
though  it  had  never  been,  was  to  her  appalling  and  un 
believable,  and  crushed  her  out  of  all  her  familiar 
paths  of  thought. 

Could  it  be,  was  it  possible  that  David,  who  had  held 
her  that  morning  in  his  arms  with  such  an  adoration 
of  love,  was  going  from  her  now  to  do  a  thing  which  he 
knew  would  tear  them  away  from  each  other  forever? 
Oh!  surely,  surely,  her  heart  cried  out  that  it  was  im 
possible.  And  yet  —  yet,  there  was  David  going 
steadily,  inexorably  on  his  way!  Mary  reeled  dizzily 
against  the  fence,  and  sank  to  the  ground  sobbing  in 
little  low,  heart-broken  gusts,  with  the  frightened  pathos 
of  a  child  who  has  had  a  glimpse  before  its  time,  of  the 
pitilessness  of  the  world.  For  in  a  woman  the  power 
of  love  is  first  developed,  and  that  of  hate  comes  later, 
born  most  often  of  the  first.  So  to  Mary  Reddin,  who 
had  never  known  the  taste  of  a  real  live  hate,  it  was 

226 


A  MATCH  FOR  LOVE 

crushingly  strange  to  find  another  force  in  the  world 
capable  of  matching  strength  with  love  —  an  emotion 
which  had  seemed  to  her  strong  beyond  everything  else. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill  David  turned  to  take  one  last 
look  at  the  place  of  their  parting,  and  in  doing  so  he 
caught  sight  of  Mary's  figure  sunk  down  by  the  fence 
—  just  a  faint  splash  of  pink  showing  between  the 
grey  rails.  David  stood  suddenly  still,  looking  up  at 
her  with  a  sharp  desire  in  his  eyes.  In  the  silent 
appeal  of  her  little  broken  figure,  all  her  vanished  gaiety 
and  wistful,  frightened  sweetness  rushed  upon  him, 
and  called  him  madly;  and  that  he  who  had  brought 
upon  her  the  first  sting  of  suffering  could  not  go  to  her 
now,  and  taking  her  in  his  arms  shield  her  from  it 
with  the  protection  of  his  strength,  seemed  monstrous 
and  unendurable;  yet  the  way  between  them  was 
barred  by  the  demon  of  his  promise,  and  devil 
ridden  by  it  he  turned  at  length  into  the  road  toward 
home. 

But  at  the  last  he  went  barely  a  hundred  yards  along 
the  road  before  he  turned  abruptly,  and  climbing  the 
fence  on  the  other  side  went  away  into  the  low  bushes 
and  undergrowth,  and  the  still  remoteness  of  one  of 
the  hollows  of  Peter's  Ridge. 

As  Mary  lay  and  wept  —  a  huddled  heap  upon  the 
moss-cushioned  ground  —  she  became  aware  of  a 
slight  stir  in  the  bushes  at  her  back,  and  knew  that  some 
one  was  behind  her.  Stifling  her  sobs,  and  springing 
quickly  to  her  feet,  she  turned  and  beheld  Ellen  Daw 
standing  in  the  pathway,  and  looking  at  her. 

227 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

Ellen's  eyes  were  misty  with  tears,  and  her  strong 
dark  face  was  full  of  compassion. 

Mary  looked  at  her  a  moment  and  then  turned  her 
gaze  away.  Below  in  the  valley  the  curving  road  lay 
like  a  wriggling  white  snake,  and  from  end  to  end  of  it 
there  was  no  sign  of  David  Cree  —  and  to  longing  eyes 
an  empty  road  is  desolate  beyond  conception. 

Mary  turned  back  to  the  other  girl  with  a  poignant 
surprise. 

"O  Ellen,  Ellen!"  she  cried  wistfully.  "Dave's 
gone  —  he's  gone!" 

"I  know,"  Ellen  answered  softly.  "I  heered  — 
I  was  settin'  back  there  in  ther  bresh." 

Then  with  a  sjiy,  constrained  movement  she  opened 
her  arms.  "Po'  little  thing,"  she  said  tenderly. 

At  the  gesture  Mary  wavered  toward  her,  dropping 
her  head  upon  her  shoulder,  and  Ellen's  arms  closed 
strongly  about  her. 

Mary  was  tall,  but  Ellen  was  unusually  tall,  with  a 
frame  almost  like  a  boy's,  and  made  strong  by  her 
constant  farm  work.  In  her  arms  Mary  felt  very 
slender  and  delicate,  and  her  grief  shook  her  from 
head  to  foot. 

Ellen  put  up  her  hand  and  stroked  her  hair  awk 
wardly,  and  pressed  her  head  against  her  own  neck, 
murmuring  softly,  "Po'  little  honey,  po'  little  thing!" 

She  pitied  her  intensely,  but  it  gave  her  a  feeling  of 
wondering,  exquisite  delight,  as  well,  that  this  lovely 
little  creature  whom  she  had  so  adored  in  secret  should 
be  clinging  to  her  now  for  sympathy  and  support. 

228 


A  MATCH  FOR  LOVE 

It  was  the  first  time  that  any  one  had  ever  sought  her 
store  of  love,  and  it  waked  within  her  a  very  passion 
of  tenderness,  and  a  fierce,  almost  maternal  desire  to 
protect  Mary  from  all  suffering.  She  loved  her  with 
an  exulting,  triumphant  love,  and  she  felt  as  though  the 
wealth  and  force  of  her  love  and  compassion  must 
fling  about  the  other  girl  a  sort  of  encompassing  and 
protecting  cloud  of  affection. 

For  a  little  while  longer  Mary  lay  still  and  let  Ellen 
caress  her,  but  at  length  she  straightened  up  and  drew 
herself  away,  pushing  her  hair  back  from  her  forehead 
with  a  weary,  bewildered  touch. 

"I  got  ter  go  home,  I  got  ter  go  now,"  she  said  in  a 
stunned  voice,  yet  with  a  certain  quiet  strength  begin 
ning  to  come  to  her.  She  moved  a  few  paces  away, 
and  then  on  the  moment  came  back  to  Ellen,  flinging 
her  arms  about  her  neck  and  kissing  her. 

"Yer  been  mighty  good  ter  me  an'  I  love  yer,"  she 
said  simply,  and  turning  again  went  slowly  down  the 
path  toward  her  home,  a  desolate  and  pathetic  little 
figure. 


229 


CHAPTER  XVI 

HATE  PLAYS  A  CARD 

WHEN  David  swung  himself  over  the  fence  into  the 
woods  of  Peter's  Ridge,  he  felt  as  though  a  crushing 
and  inexorable  fate  encompassed  him  on  every  side, 
and  the  tug  of  his  different  emotions,  which  dragged 
him  now  in  this  direction  and  now  in  that,  drove  him 
almost  frantic. 

He  went  a  little  distance  up  the  gentle  slope  of  the 
hollow,  with  indifferent  stumbling  steps,  and  at  a 
secluded  spot  flung  himself  full  length  upon  the  ground, 
burying  his  head  upon  his  arms;  and  the  still  woods,  all 
suffused  with  the  green  mysterious  light  of  after 
noon,  heard  him  groan  from  his  heart,  as  a  man  only 
groans  when  there  are  no  other  human  beings  by  to 
offer  the  pity  or  contempt  of  their  eyes. 

For  a  long  time  he  lay  thus;  then  he  gradually 
stretched  out  his  benumbed  arms  and  dug  his  fingers 
into  the  mossy  depths  of  the  ground,  his  face  pressed 
against  its  whispering  coolness;  and  again  for  a  long 
time  he  lay  still,  his  love  keeping  watch  over  him  on 
one  side,  while  hate  sat  upon  the  other.  The  one 
came  to  him  in  the  remembrance  of  Mary  Reddin's 
tender,  appealing  face,  and  the  other  looked  at  him 

230 


HATE  PLAYS  A  CARD 

with  Kip  Ryerson's  hateful  eyes.  Love  cried  to  him 
in  Mary's  voice,  "Oh!  ain't  hit  right  that  love  should 
come  first?"  and  "O  Dave,  put  yer  love  before  yer 
hate,"  and  with  the  cry  it  seemed  to  him  he  could  feel 
once  more  the  quiver  of  her  clinging  arms  about  his 
neck,  and  her  breath  upon  his  cheek;  and  hate  taunted 
him  in  his  own  passionate  words  of  ten  years  ago  — 
"I've  promised  yer,  Pappy!  I've  promised,  an'  I 
won't  fergit!"  And  as  the  old  promise  leaped  through 
his  brain  he  matched  it  with  the  keenly  remembered 
feeling  of  Kip  Ryerson's  struggling  body  under  his 
own,  and  of  his  throat  beneath  his  clutching  hands. 
Thus  love  sat  upon  one  side,  and  hate  leered  at  her 
from  the  other;  and  between  them  David  Cree  lay  upon 
his  face  and  strove  with  himself  to  find  the  right  way. 
Yet  he  knew  instinctively,  in  spite  of  all  the  strength 
of  his  love,  that  if  Kip  Ryerson  were  to  come  suddenly 
before  him  again,  he  would  leap  upon  him  with  the 
same  quick  fury  with  which  he  had  leaped  that  morn 
ing.  For  the  physical  presence  of  the  man  enkindled 
always  within  him  an  absolute  overmastery  of  hate. 
And  at  even  the  thought  of  coming  on  him  again,  David 
half  drew  himself  to  his  feet  to  go  without  further 
delay,  and  accomplish  his  revenge.  But  with  the 
movement  Mary's  words  came  back  upon  him  —  "An' 
ef  yer  kill  Kip  Ryerson  —  no,  ef  yer  so  much  es  try 
ter  kill  him,  yer  sha'n't  ever  hev  me."  And  again  he 
dropped  back  upon  the  ground.  So  if  he  kept  his 
promise  to  his  father  —  a  promise  into  which  he  had 
flung  his  very  self  —  besides  the  wrecking  of  his  life, 

231 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

together  with  possible  hanging  and  almost  certain 
imprisonment  —  he  was  to  lose  the  love  for  which  he 
cared  more  than  for  anything  else  in  the  world. 

David  Cree  was  not  a  man  of  subtle  argument,  it 
was  more  instinctive  with  him  to  keep  his  reasoning 
powers  quiescent,  and  to  let  the  strength  of  his  emo 
tions  decide  for  him  —  in  other  words,  he  reasoned 
almost  entirely  by  his  feelings.  If  he  felt  a  thing  to 
be  right  or  to  be  wrong  he  acted  accordingly;  but  if  his 
instincts  failed  him,  or  came  together  in  conflict,  he 
was  bewildered  and  uncertain  how  to  act,  unable  to 
argue  it  out  with  himself,  or  to  draw  precepts  from 
other  men  —  for  right  or  wrong  for  other  people  was 
not  right  or  wrong  with  him  if  his  own  conscience  did 
not  speak.  And  the  whole  outcome  of  his  actions  now 
hinged  upon  the  question  of  whether  his  love  or  his 
hate  were  stronger  within  him. 

The  hate  that  he  had  lived  with  and  nourished 
through  his  boyhood  was  a  very  intense  passion, 
matched  only  in  strength  by  his  love  —  and  that  was 
such  a  newly  acquired  feeling  that  as  yet  he  had  scarcely 
guessed  the  power  of  it. 

Yet  whenever  the  hot  waves  of  hate  went  over  him 
and  he  would  have  risen  to  his  feet,  and  securing  his  pis 
tol  gone  in  search  of  Ryerson,  always  some  poig 
nant  remembrance  of  Mary  came  back  upon  him 
and  restrained  him.  And  though  hate  whispered  that 
if  he  stayed  too  long  in  the  woods  his  revenge  would 
escape  him,  still  he  tarried,  his  hand  stayed  by  love. 

When  at  length  he  got  slowly  to  his  feet  and  made 
232 


HATE  PLAYS  A  CARD 

his  way  down  the  hollow,  the  afternoon  had  gone  some 
distance  toward  evening,  and  what  he  should  do  in  the 
next  few  hours  he  himself  did  not  know;  but  for  the 
moment  his  love  was  very  alive  within  him,  fostered 
perhaps  by  the  long  hours  in  the  still  remoteness  of 
the  woods. 

When  he  emerged  from  the  undergrowth,  and  step 
ping  absently  over  the  low  fence  faced  toward  home, 
he  became  dimly  aware  that  the  day's  intensity  of  heat 
had  abated,  and  that  the  promise  of  the  storm  was  near 
its  fulfilment. 

The  low  rays  of  the  sun  struggled  through  piled-up 
grey  and  black  clouds  and  strangely  thick  white  ones, 
making  an  ominous  background  for  the  western  peaks 
of  Drupe  Mountain,  and  darkening  the  mountains 
themselves  to  an  expectant  purple,  streaked  here  and 
there  with  faint  sunshine  where  some  higher  ridge 
caught  a  few  wandering  rays  which  transformed  its 
gloom  into  a  delicate  effulgence  of  yellowish  green 
light. 

Sometimes,  as  the  wind  shifted  the  cloud  ramparts, 
so  that  the  sun  looked  through  at  ever  changing  loop 
holes,  these  tender  streaks  of  light  went  stepping 
silently  from  ridge  to  ridge  of  the  mountains  like  a 
wandering  halo  that  had  lost  its  saint  —  or  like  the 
unexpected  smile  of  God  moving  over  the  world. 

A  light  wind  swirled  hither  and  thither  in  uncertain 
gusts,  silvering  the  new  leaves  with  its  breath,  and 
sending  little  dust  devils  rioting  away  up  the  road. 

The  air  was  full  of  the  looked-for  relief  of  the  storm 
233 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

after  the  breathless  oppression  of  the  day.  The  frogs 
called  with  eager  voices,  and  in  the  distance  a  rain 
crow  gave  forth  its  hollow  prophetic  note;  and  every 
now  and  again  sharp  tongues  of  lightning  licked  out 
from  the  banked-up  clouds  and  sent  a  grey  rumble  of 
thunder  artillery  growling  off  into  silence  among  the 
valleys  and  narrow  hollows  of  the  mountains. 

For  the  most  part  David  walked  along  the  deserted 
road  with  unnoticing  eyes,  but  once  a  nearer  and 
louder  thunder-clap  than  usual  waked  him  to  the 
present,  and  raising  his  eyes  he  took  in  the  signs  of  the 
coming  storm. 

"When  she  comes  she'll  be  er  big  one,"  he  muttered. 

Then  as  the  thunder  spoke  again  more  sharply  he 
whispered,  "  Ef  that's  God's  voice  I  wished  He'd  speak 
ter  me.  God,"  he  cried  suddenly,  deep  within  him 
self,  "I  don't  know  what's  right  —  show  me!" 

For  a  moment  afterward  he  stood  still,  half  expecting 
some  new  revelation  of  thought,  but  all  remained  un 
changed,  and  presently  he  went  on  slowly  upon  his 
way  again. 

All  that  afternoon  Judith  Cree  had  sat  upon  the  low 
step  of  the  Crees'  porch  and  looked  across  the  valley 
and  up  the  road  with  searching  eyes,  awaiting  David's 
return. 

She  sat  frozen  to  perfect  stillness,  except  that  every 
now  and  again  her  thin  hands  lying  in  her  lap  clinched 
upon  each  other  with  a  hard  tremor.  Her  face  had 
lost  its  expression  of  dead  horror  —  the  expression 
that  seemed  as  though  with  her  mental  vision  she  be- 

234 


HATE  PLAYS  A  CARD 

held  always  the  calamity  of  ten  years  ago  —  and  now 
was  stamped  with  a  burning  look  of  live  hate. 

Every  now  and  then  Susan  Cree,  her  daughter  — 
a  pretty,  delicate  girl,  a  few  years  older  than  Mary 
Reddin,  with  wide  blue  eyes,  and  rather  colourless 
brown  hair  —  came  nervously  out  onto  the  porch  and 
looked  at  her  mother  in  a  frightened,  irresolute  way. 
Occasionally  she  asked  her  some  trivial  question, 
timorously  anxious  to  break  the  spell  of  her  strained, 
unnatural  attitude.  Judith  answered  her  in  mono 
syllables  which  did  not  lessen  one  whit  the  intensity 
of  her  expression,  or  else  was  silent  altogether;  and 
after  looking  at  her  for  a  little  while  with  a  scared,  wist 
ful  face,  the  girl  would  go  back  into  the  house  again, 
attending  restlessly  to  the  household  tasks,  only  to 
come  drifting  back  presently  to  the  doorway,  to  cast 
more  anxious  glances  at  her  mother's  stern  figure. 

Judith  Cree,  unlike  most  of  the  Draft  people,  had 
not  been  at  preaching  that  morning,  but  Susan,  com 
ing  home  with  the  two  younger  Cree  boys,  Ed  and 
Bud,  had  told  her  of  the  reappearance  of  Kip  and  of 
David's  having  to  be  dragged  off  of  him. 

At  Susan's  words  that  Ryerson  was  still  alive,  a 
frightful  look  flashed  over  all  her  mother's  face,  dis 
torting  it  sharply,  and  rising  hastily  from  the  dinner 
table  at  which  she  had  been  seated,  she  put  her  hands 
to  her  throat  as  though  she  could  not  catch  her  breath, 
and  stood  a  moment  staring  into  the  girl's  gentle, 
startled  face.  Then  she  took  her  hands  down  and 
dropped  them  to  Susan's  shoulders. 

235 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

"Go  on,  go  on"  she  cried  fiercely,  glaring  at  her 
and  shaking  her  slightly  to  and  fro.  "  Go  on,  yer  little 
f00l  —  when  they  got  Dave  offer  him  what  happened  ?" 

"Why  then,"  Susan  faltered,  "Kip,  he  lit  out  up  ther 
road,  an'  Mary  got  Dave  sorter  quieted  down,  an'  made 
him  come  on  home  with  her." 

"  Kip  Ryerson  went  up  the  road  an'  Dave  come  down 
hit  with  Mary?"  Judith  cried  with  savage  astonish 
ment. 

The  girl  nodded  in  frightened  silence. 

"An'  what'd  you  all  do?"  Judith  demanded,  whirl 
ing  upon  Bud  and  Ed  Cree  —  boys  of  sixteen  and 
eighteen. 

"We  didn't  know  who  he  was  first  off,  an'  afterwards 
Mr.  Reddin  an'  Jack  an'  one  or  two  other  fellers  got 
betwixt  us  an'  him,  an'  kep'  us  outer  hit,"  the  oldest 
boy  answered  sullenly  for  both. 

"An'  then  I  suppose  you  all  come  home  with  Sue," 
Judith  cried  with  biting  scorn. 

The  boys  looked  at  each  other  but  said  nothing. 
They  had  never  seen  their  mother,  always  so  quiet  and 
so  cold,  in  such  a  white  fury  of  passion,  and  it  surprised 
them  into  silence. 

Judith  turned  from  them  contemptuously,  and  stri 
ding  to  the  door  looked  eagerly  up  the  road.  Seeing 
nothing  she  came  back  to  the  table,  but  in  a  moment 
she  sprang  up  restlessly,  and  going  out  on  to  the  porch 
flung  herself  down  upon  the  top  step  and  began  her 
long  vigil  for  David. 

Again  and  again  throughout  the  afternoon  Susan 
236 


HATE  PLAYS  A  CARD 

came  out  to  her,  trying  to  induce  her  to  eat  some 
thing,  or  to  come  into  the  house  out  of  the  full  glare  of 
the  heat.  But  her  entreaties  had  absolutely  no  weight 
with  her  mother,  and  the  girl's  face  grew  more  and 
more  anxious.  Hers  was  a  sweet  but  not  a  very 
strong  nature,  and  her  mother's  behaviour  alarmed  her 
excessively,  and  each  time  she  went  to  the  door  to  look 
at  her  she  came  back  with  a  nervous  tightening  of  her 
throat.  Through  the  long  hot  afternoon  Judith  Cree 
held  the  same  rigid  position.  Her  attitude  was  one  of 
crouching,  as  though  the  next  moment  she  might  leap 
furiously  to  her  feet;  her  eyes  were  red  and  burnt  from 
staring  across  the  dazzling  sunshine,  and  the  out 
spread  panorama  of  the  valley  seemed  to  her  to  have 
seared  itself  everlastingly  upon  her  brain.  It  was  a 
spring  landscape  that  faced  her  now,  yet  to  herself  she 
seemed  to  be  looking  across  the  shining  fawn-coloured 
fields  of  autumn,  and  to  be  met  by  the  glory  of  the 
mountains  in  the  full  splendour  of  their  October  colour 
ing  instead  of  the  soft  spring  greenery.  For  it  seemed 
to  her  all  to  have  slipped  back  to  the  fall  of  ten  years 
ago,  with  herself  standing  happily  in  the  doorway 
looking  across  the  valley,  her  baby's  head  upon  her 
breast,  and  her  ears  listening  to  heavy  footsteps  that 
approached  the  house  from  the  rear.  She  seemed  to 
be  herself  of  ten  years  ago  and  herself  of  the  present 
mysteriously  combined.  To  be  listening  to  the  foot 
steps  with  her  wonder  of  the  past,  yet  to  know  what 
they  were  with  the  knowledge  and  hate  of  the  present. 
Through  the  whole  afternoon  she  lived  this  double 

237 


THE  SOWING   OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

role  of  past  and  present.  And  with  a  curious  trick 
of  her  brain  —  perhaps  induced  by  the  intense  heat  of 
the  sun  —  she  did  not  go  over  the  past  in  retrospect, 
but  seemed  to  be  actually  living  over  each  succeeding 
moment  of  her  life's  catastrophe.  In  her  dual  exist 
ence  of  past  and  present,  with  heedless  eyes  she  watched 
the  sun  drop  slowly  toward  the  west;  the  long  black 
shadows  creep  away  from  it  to  the  eastward,  and  the 
thunder-clouds  pile  themselves  up  across  the  horizon. 
She  saw  —  without  realizing  that  she  saw  her  —  Ellie 
dancing  and  pirouetting  down  the  hill  before  the  house, 
in  mad  excitement  over  the  wind's  cool  invitation,  and 
the  exhilarating  promise  of  the  storm.  Once  or  twice 
the  little  girl  dashed  breathlessly  up  to  her,  and  snug 
gling  down  beside  her  on  the  step  —  like  a  darting 
bird  touching  ground  for  an  instant  —  asked  some 
gay,  childish  question.  But  Judith  gave  her  no  answer, 
and  in  a  moment,  disappointed  at  her  silence,  Ellie 
would  flash  away  again  on  buoyant  feet,  her  hair 
blown  in  long  flying  strands  across  her  elf  face,  and 
her  light  skirts  twisting  and  untwisting  about  her,  as 
she  danced  and  whirled  this  way  and  that,  like  some 
little  mad  storm  sprite  intoxicated  by  the  call  of  the 
wind  and  the  joy  of  young  life. 

The  swallows  swooped  through  the  watery  grey 
sky  in  mad  twittering  races,  and  in  the  distance  the 
rain  crow  sent  forth  his  blue  note,  that  seems  somehow 
in  tone  to  match  the  wistful  tint  of  the  haze  that  over 
hangs  the  far  mountains  in  spring. 

The  whole  valley  lay  in  the  clutch  of  the  melting 
238 


HATE  PLAYS  A  CARD 

afternoon  light,  touched  to  unfamiliarity  by  the  storm, 
and  at  length,  in  this  yellow  mystery  of  atmosphere, 
Judith  Cree  saw  David  coming  slowly  up  the  long 
slope  of  the  hill  toward  the  house. 

At  the  first  sight  of  him  she  shot  up  to  her  feet,  her 
hands  clinching  into  hard  fists ;  then  her  impulse  chang 
ing,  she  sank  again  to  the  steps,  moistening  her  dry 
lips  every  now  and  again,  and  holding  the  sight  of  him 
with  burning,  unwinking  eyes. 

David  walked  with  head  down,  and  he  was  almost 
upon  the  steps  before  he  caught  sight  of  his  mother. 
He  paused  abruptly  as  he  came  before  her,  and  stood 
looking  down  at  her  in  silence. 

Judith  rose  slowly,  terribly  to  her  feet. 

"Is  he  dead?"  she  demanded  in  a  voice  that  was 
hardly  more  than  a  whisper,  and  which  held  the  con 
centrated  brooding  of  ten  silent  years. 

David's  face  whitened  sharply. 

"No,  he  ain't  dead,"  he  said. 

"Ain't  dead  —  ain't  dead!"  she  cried.  "Why  ain't 
he  dead?" 

"They  took  me  offer  him  at  ther  schoolhouse,  an' 
he  got  erway  up  ther  road,  an'  I  ain't  seen  him  since," 
he  answered. 

"You  ain't  seen  him  since?"  she  cried,  and  the  words 
leaped  at  him  stingingly  like  a  lash.  "Where  hev  yer 
been  all  this  time?"  she  demanded. 

"I  been  over  at  ther  Reddins'  er  good  bit  er  ther 
time,"  David  answered,  a  slow,  ominous  colour  begin- 
ing  to  burn  in  his  face. 

239 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

"You  been  over  at  ther  Reddins'  ?"  she  said,  a  pause 
of  scorn  between  each  deliberate  word.  "You  been 
over  at  the  Reddins'  —  an'  ther  man  what  killed  yer 
Pappy  is  erlive  an'  goin'  erbout  ther  Draft,"  she 
paused.  "But  you  been  over  at  ther  Reddins',''  she 
repeated.  "I  hope  yer  hed  er  real  pleasant  time," 
she  cried  in  slow,  furious  mockery. 

David's  eyes  began  to  light  with  the  same  dangerous 
fire  as  her  own,  yet  he  answered  low  and  steady : 

"Mary  Reddin  says  ef  I  so  much  es  try  ter  kill  Kip 
I  sha'n't  ever  marry  her,"  he  said. 

"Mary  Reddin!  Mary  Reddin /"  the  woman  almost 
screamed.  "What's  Mary  Reddin?"  Suddenly  she 
broke  off  and  imitated  a  child's  voice  with  terrible 
sarcasm:  "I  won't  fergit,  Pappy!  I  won't  fergit!  I've 
promised  yer  an'  I  won't  fergit!" 

Again  she  paused,  looking  into  his  shaken  face,  then 
she  stepped  closer,  clasping  his  arm  with  intense  vibrant 
fingers. 

"What's  yer  name?"  she  cried,  her  wild  face 
thrown  back,  and  looking  at  him  from  under  half- 
closed  lids. 

"David  Cree,"  he  answered  in  a  strained  voice,  too 
overwrought  and  played  upon  by  her  passion  to  realize 
the  strangeness  of  the  question. 

"David  Cree!"  she  screamed,  and  sprang  back. 
' '  David  Cree !  It's  er  lie  —  yer  not  David  Cree !  David 
Cree  made  er  promise.  An'  he  made  ther  fellers  run 
Kip  Ryerson  out  er  this  Draft.  An'  he  tole  me  Kip 
Ryerson  shouldn't  ever  go  by  this  house  ergin.  That's 

240 


HATE  PLAYS  A  CARD 

what  David  Cree  done.  But  you  ain't  him !  You  ain't 
Alderson's  boy,  an'  you  ain't  mine  neither." 

With  furious  eyes  blazing  at  him  she  stood  back  a 
pace  or  two,  panting.  Then  suddenly  she  held  up  her 
withered  and  twisted  hands  before  him. 

"Look  at  them  hands!"  she  cried,  and  shook  them 
in  his  face.  "Look  at  'em!  Do  yer  reckon  I'd  er  hed 
hands  like  that  ef  Kip  Ryerson  hedn't  er  killed  Alderson 
Cree?  Look  at  me!  Look  at  me  all  over!"  She 
straightened  up  before  him,  a  wasted,  drawn  figure,  old 
and  work- wrung  at  forty.  "Do  yer  reckon  I'd  er 
looked  like  this  ef  I'd  er  hed  er  man  ter  work  fer  me?" 
she  demanded.  "An'  why  ain't  I  got  er  man?  Be 
cause  Kip  Ryerson  killed  him  —  stole  up  behind  him 
an'  shot  him  in  ther  back." 

She  was  sobbing  now,  beside  herself  with  hate, 
excitement,  and  the  breaking  down  of  long  held  self- 
control. 

"Oh!"  she  cried  bitterly,  "Oh!  wished  /  was  er 
man!" 

David  laid  his  hand  firmly  on  her  shoulder. 

"Hush,"  he  said  sternly;  and  beside  her  shaken,  dis 
torted  passion  he  seemed  very  strong  and  very  quiet. 
"Hush,"  he  said  again;  his  firm  hand  upon  her,  and 
his  touch  pressing  her  to  silence. 

He  stood  over  her  for  a  time,  until  her  wild  sobbing 
spent  itself  and  trailed  brokenly  into  silent,  heaving 
breaths.  Then  he  took  his  hand  from  her  shoulder, 
and  turning  went  past  Ellie,  who  watched  with  a  small 
excited  face,  and  past  Susan  who  was  crying  with 

241 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

nervous  fright,  and  disappeared  into  the  house,  and 
when  he  came  out  again  he  held  his  pistol  in  his  hand. 
Still  in  silence  he  passed  them  all,  and  stepping  off  the 
porch  went  away  down  the  hill,  and  by  and  by  the 
dusk,  which  backed  by  the  storm  was  almost  darkness 
now,  swallowed  up  his  powerful  figure  from  sight. 

Susan  sank  down  upon  the  top  step,  crying  hysteri 
cally.  But  Judith  stood  and  watched  until  David  was 
utterly  lost  in  the  gloom,  her  head  held  proudly  and 
her  eyes  lighted  with  an  exultant  fire. 


242 


CHAPTER  XVII 

ELLEN  DAW  SAYS   FAREWELL 

FOR  a  little  while  after  Mary  Reddin  left  her,  Ellen 
Daw  stood  still,  looking  with  eager  eyes  at  the  spot  in 
the  yellow  green  mist  of  the  woods  where  Mary's 
slender  figure  had  disappeared.  At  length,  from  look 
ing  down  the  path,  she  turned  and  placed  both  hands 
on  the  top  rail  of  the  fence  —  which  had  long  since  been 
softly  enshrouded  in  the  grey  tenderness  of  moss  and 
lichen  growth  —  and  standing  thus  her  wistful  eyes 
took  the  landscape  of  the  still  valley  below  her,  and  the 
greeny  blue  hills  of  Peter's  Ridge  opposite  to  witness, 
that  at  last  out  of  all  the  world,  and  out  of  all  her 
colourless  procession  of  lonely,  uncared-for  days,  Mary 
Reddin  had  come  into  her  arms  with  a  need  for  some 
of  her  heaped-up  store  of  affection  —  nay,  more  — 
had  not  only  sought  Ellen's  hitherto  unvalued  affec 
tion,  but  had  given  her  as  well  some  of  her  own;  be 
stowing  it  in  the  simple  words,  "You  been  mighty 
good  ter  me,  an'  I  love  yer!" 

She  loved  her!  Mary  Reddin,  the  sweetest  and 
prettiest  thing  in  the  Draft,  loved  Ellen  Daw  —  Ellen 
Daw  for  whom  nobody  had  seemed  to  care  the  least 
little  snap  of  a  finger.  It  was  all  to  her  a  wonderful 

243 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

and  beautiful  revelation,  and  with  the  revelation  there 
leaped  up  within  Ellen  a  very  wildness  of  delighted 
love  for  the  other  girl. 

Sometimes  to  herself,  in  her  starved  life,  she  had 
pretended  that  she  was  her  own  mother,  friend,  or 
lover,  that  in  imagination  at  least  she  might  throw 
around  her  neglected  personality  some  of  the  different 
varieties  of  love  that  seemed  to  go  wandering  freely 
through  the  world,  alighting  so  easily  upon  every  one 
save  herself.  And  now,  with  a  quick  turn  of  the  hand, 
reality  had  given  her  the  love  of  a  friend  —  and  of  one, 
too,  that  Ellen  had  always  extravagantly  adored  in 
secret.  And  Ellen's  heart  sprang  to  meet  the  gift 
with  an  overwhelming  wave  of  tenderness. 

Moreover,  in  this  new  and  radiant  gift  all  Ellen's 
imagined  love  for  David  melted  a\vay  into  nothingness. 
He  had  never  been  a  real  person  to  her  —  he  was 
merely  a  frame  upon  which  she  had  built  her  wistful 
dreams,  and  now  in  the  face  of  reality  the  man  of  straw 
vanished  —  vanished  so  entirely  and  completely  that 
Ellen  never  even  comprehended  that  she  had  lost  him. 
He  had  been  created  in  her  mind  to  fill  her  need  for 
something  to  love,  and  as  soon  as  there  came  a  tangible 
outlet  for  that  need  the  intangible  shrivelled  up  and 
blew  away  like  a  cloud  that  had  never  been. 

At  length  the  long  slant  of  the  sun,  and  the  gathering 
storm  clouds,  warned  her  that  she  must  not  dawdle 
there  longer,  hugging  her  new-found  treasure,  while  her 
evening  chores  lay  unattended  at  home;  and  with  a  last 
full  sigh  of  happiness  she  took  her  hands  lingeringly 

244 


ELLEN   DAW   SAYS   FAREWELL 

from  the  fence  and,  climbing  over  it,  started  briskly 
on  her  homeward  way. 

Once  started  she  walked  quickly,  for  she  should  have 
been  at  home  long  since.  Indeed  she  had  left  her 
aunt's  almost  directly  after  dinner  with  the  intention 
of  getting  home  early,  for  there  was  always  plenty  of 
work  to  call  her,  and  also  that  afternoon  she  had  had 
a  more  than  usually  shrinking  desire  to  get  away  from 
people's  eyes,  and  be  alone  in  the  mountains  once 
more.  She  had  started  homeward  by  way  of  the 
road,  but  the  path  that  ran  away  into  the  hills  past  the 
Hull  graveyard  had  lured  her  from  the  hot  dustiness 
of  the  main  track,  and  thus  it  chanced  that  sitting 
down  to  rest  a  few  moments  a  little  back  among  the 
undergrowth  and  wild  azaleas  she  had  been  a  witness 
to  the  scene  between  Mary  and  David. 

As  she  went  on  her  way  now,  the  knowledge  of  her 
new  possession  kept  pace  with  her  and  seemed  to  touch 
all  life  with  a  radiant  inspiration  —  putting  the  elas 
ticity  of  happiness  into  her  whole  being,  and  her  mind 
went  eagerly  in  quest  of  something  that  she  could  do 
for  Mary  to  save  her  from  the  coming  disaster  —  for 
with  Ellen  to  love  was  to  do. 

Ellen  Daw  had  not  lived  a  normal  life,  and  its  un 
natural  lack  of  affection  and  companionship  had 
warped  her  nature  and  made  her  different  from  most 
young  women,  and  thus,  when  at  last  some  little  offer 
of  friendship  came  to  her,  she  returned  it  with  an 
extravagant,  almost  an  erratic,  wealth  of  love. 

It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  Mary  was  nearly  as  old 
245 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

as  herself,  and  that  she  had  certainly  many  more  pro 
tectors  than  she  had,  for  when  Mary  came  into  her 
arms  she  had  seemed  to  Ellen  like  a  little  bewildered 
child,  appealing  especially  to  her  for  protection;  and 
Ellen  answered  the  appeal  with  an  aching  desire  to  be 
the  one  to  shelter  and  defend  her.  But  how  was  she 
to  do  it?  —  If  she  could  only  think  of  some  way. 
Suddenly,  as  her  mind  groped  thus  for  a  golden  solution 
to  Mary's  unhappiness,  a  suggestion  sprang  all  at  once 
into  her  mind  and  took  quick  shape  as  a  possibility. 
Ellen  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  her  heart 
leaping  in  great  alarmed  bounds,  and  her  face  blanch 
ing  as  the  idea  opened  out  before  her  like  a  flash. 

At  first  it  was  only  a  horrifying  thought,  but  as  she 
walked  on  again,  slowly  it  turned  itself  over  in  her 
mind,  showing  each  side  with  a  terrible  insistent  allure 
ment;  and  Ellen,  fostering  it  at  first  only  in  a  sort  of 
terrorized  fascination,  found  presently  that  it  gripped 
her  more  and  more  with  a  clutch  from  which  she 
seemed  powerless  to  escape.  Yet  appalling  as  the 
idea  was,  did  she  honestly  desire  to  escape  from  it? 
What  she  desired  more  than  anything  else  in  the  whole 
universe  at  that  moment  was  to  serve  Mary  Reddin, 
who  with  her  sweet  touch  had  pushed  back  a  little  the 
heavy  doors  of  her  loneliness;  and  the  carrying  out  of 
this  suggestion  would  serve  her  —  would  deliver  her 
from  the  approaching  ruin  of  her  love. 

Ellen  let  her  mind  pause  in  fatal  speculation  before 
it,  and  presently,  thinking  of  her  own  unimportant  and 
unloved  existence,  as  compared  to  Mary,  beloved  and 

246 


ELLEN   DAW   SAYS   FAREWELL 

needed  by  so  many,  she  whispered  half  out  loud,  "Hit 
don't  matter  erbout  me  —  I  ain't  really  nothin'  ter  no 
body";  and  with  the  words,  the  idea  that  had  come  at 
first  merely  as  a  vague  possibility  congealed  suddenly 
into  a  definite  purpose,  and  with  a  look  of  white  finality 
on  her  face,  Ellen  began  to  walk  very  quickly,  almost, 
indeed,  to  run,  up  the  steep  road  of  the  mountain. 

When  she  reached  home  she  found  Silas  Daw  im 
patiently  and  angrily  awaiting  her  return,  that  he 
might  be  released  from  looking  after  Mrs.  Daw,  to 
hobble  over  to  a  near-by  neighbour's  for  a  Sunday 
chat;  for  the  warm  weather  had  lately  eased  his  rheu 
matism  sufficiently  to  enable  him  to  get  about  a  little 
with  his  two  sticks,  but  not  enough  for  him  to  feel  that 
he  could  take  part  in  any  of  the  farm  work. 

Ellen  gave  no  answer  to  his  storm  of  querulous  abuse, 
and  watched  him  depart  presently  with  keen  satisfac 
tion;  for  it  suited  well  with  her  purpose  that  he  should 
be  absent. 

She  had  run  a  good  part  of  the  way  home,  and 
though  she  was  breathless,  time  had  been  saved,  and 
there  was  yet  a  good  stretch  of  daylight  before  her  — 
even  allowing  for  the  brewing  thunder-storm  which 
would  bring  the  darkness  down  earlier  than  usual. 

She  found  her  adopted  mother  sitting  stupidly  in  the 
back  doorway  watching  the  meanderings  of  an  old 
hen  and  brood  of  chickens.  At  the  girl's  approach 
she  raised  her  blank  face  and  stared  foolishly.  Ellen 
looked  down  at  her.  Used  as  she  was  to  the  emptiness 
of  the  face,  it  came  over  her  now,  in  her  aliveness  to 

247 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

all  emotion,  with  a  fresh  shock  of  revelation,  as  though 
she  saw  it  for  the  first  time.  Yet  in  the  very  shock  she 
put  the  feeling  from  her,  and  stooping  quickly  kissed 
her  mother  with  a  keener  pity  than  ever  before.  Then 
tossing  off  her  sunbonnet  she  went  swiftly  into  the 
kitchen,  and  lighting  the  fire  set  about  her  evening 
tasks  with  feverish  haste. 

She  brought  fresh  water,  filled  the  kettle  and  set  it 
on  to  boil;  made  the  usual  soda  biscuits  and  set  them 
to  rise;  sliced  the  bacon  ready  to  fry  later,  and  then 
catching  up  her  milk  pail  turned  with  the  same  eager 
ness  to  her  out-of-door  work.  Yet  though  she  worked 
so  quickly,  everything  she  did  was  done  with  a  strange 
precision  and  careful  finish,  as  though  she  were  doing 
it  all  for  the  last  time,  and  in  so  doing  dwelt  upon  it 
with  a  fondness  which  long  familiarity,  and  continual 
repetition,  had  thrown  around  it. 

Out  of  doors  it  was  the  same  way.  When  she  milked 
the  two  cows  she  felt  a  close  affection  for  them,  and 
when  she  fed  the  old  mare  she  even  put  her  arms  about 
her  neck  and  laid  her  cheek  against  her  mane. 

"You  an'  me's  seen  some  pretty  tough  times  together, 
ain't  we?"  she  whispered,  "an'  do'  know  but  what 
you've  had  er  harder  time'n  I  hev  —  but  maybe  horses 
don't  keer  like  folks  do.  But  I  keer — "  she  cried 
with  quick  sympathy,  "cause  you've  allers  hed  sech 
er  hard  scuffle.  You  an'  me's  allers  been  sorter  erlike, 
an'  I  keer,  I  do  keer,"  she  said  again,  and  tightened 
her  arms  about  the  mare's  neck.  "I  hope  Pappy 
won't  be  mean  ter  yer,"  she  added  wistfully.  "  But  any- 

248 


ELLEN   DAW   SAYS   FAREWELL 

how,  ef  he  is,  yer  right  ole  an'  yer  won't  hev  ter  stan'  hit 
so  very  long." 

Every  step  she  took  about  the  stable  yard  was  at 
tended  by  a  hurrying,  anxious  flock  of  heterogeneous 
poultry,  and  when  at  length  she  emerged  with  the  pan 
of  chicken  feed,  the  whole  multitude  swooped  toward 
her  on  flying  wings.  Turkeys  with  long  swinging 
gait  and  cruel  eyes,  ducks  with  cheerful  black  eyes 
and  widely  expansive  countenances,  and  hasty  fat 
waddles  assisted  by  outspread  wings;  a  stray  goose  or 
two,  and  one  lonely  grey  guinea,  besides  all  the  assembly 
of  hens,  pullets,  roosters,  and  little  chicks,  the  latter 
of  varying  ages  numbered  by  weeks;  all  came  to  her 
half  flying,  half  running  —  a  soft  wave  of  outspread 
wings.  Some  flew  upon  the  rim  of  the  pan,  snatching 
a  few  eager  pecks  before  being  sent  fluttering  to  the 
ground ;  some,  more  adventurous,  flew  on  to  her  shoulder, 
and  leaning  over  with  cautious  balancing  reached 
outstretched  necks  toward  the  pan,  only  to  end  by 
over-toppling  themselves  and  going  squawking  to  the 
ground,  panic-stricken  at  their  own  venturesomeness ; 
and  all  about  her  feet  they  were  so  thick  that  the  girl 
could  scarcely  move  without  trampling  upon  them. 

She  knew  them  all  so  well !  Every  one  of  them  in 
dividually,  as  she  had  known  their  mothers,  grand 
mothers,  and  great-grandmothers  before  them.  Just 
a  hungry,  selfish,  squabbling  horde,  intent  only  on 
their  own  welfare,  and  yet  —  she  cared  for  them  —  in 
spite  of  all  she  cared  for  them;  for  they  were  all  part  of 
the  life  that  she  was  leaving,  and  truly,  now  that  she 

249 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

came  to  the  wrenching  away  from  it,  there  was  in 
finitely  more  in  her  shut-away  existence  on  the  moun 
tain-top  than  she  had  ever  dreamed  she  cared  for. 

Flipping  the  last  damp  crumbs  of  the  corn-meal 
dough  from  her  fingers,  she  went  slowly  toward  the 
house,  the  chickens  still  pursuing  her,  and  she  herself 
casting  more  than  one  backward  glance  at  the  landscape 
that  she  knew  so  well.  Mountains  piled  and  tumbled 
upon  one  another,  little  half-hid  valleys  lying  in  their 
arms;  and  mellowed  farm  lands  in  the  distance,  cut 
across  by  the  silver  flash  of  the  Drupe  River.  In  the 
doorway  she  paused  and  cast  one  long  look  at  it  all; 
and  there  was  not  a  littlest  valley,  nor  haziest  distant 
stretch  of  farm  land,  nor  shimmer  of  the  river,  nor 
least  little  rounded  knob  of  mountain  peak,  with  which 
she  was  not  achingly  familiar. 

How  many,  many  times  had  she  stood  as  she  stood 
now  in  that  doorway  when  life  was  lonely  and  hard  and 
bitter,  and  looking  over  at  the  mountains  had  gained 
quiet  and  fortitude  from  their  large  stillness.  And 
now  what  else  would  she  ever  find  to  take  their  place  ? 

Ellen  turned  at  length  in  doors  with  a  certain  feeling 
of  resentment  that  on  this  last  evening  there  should 
have  been  no  painting  of  the  sky  in  glorious  sunset 
colours  as  a  remembrance,  but  that  the  sun  should 
have  dropped  instead  into  the  colourless  bank  of 
sullen  storm  clouds. 

Indoors  she  finished  getting  supper,  and  laid  the 
table  with  care.  Her  father  had  not  yet  returned,  but 
it  was  nearly  time  for  him,  and  she  must  hurry.  She 

250 


ELLEN   DAW   SAYS   FAREWELL 

pushed  the  coffee  and  crackling  bacon  to  the  back  of 
the  stove,  and  opened  the  oven  door  that  the  biscuits 
might  keep  hot  without  burning,  and  then  pausing  in 
the  middle  of  the  poorly  furnished  little  kitchen  she 
stood  for  a  time  taking  in  all  its  well-known  details. 
The  dour  familiarity  of  the  room  seemed  all  at  once  to 
take  on  personality,  and  creeping  toward  her,  silently, 
intangibly,  to  wrap  long-accustomed  arms  about  her, 
holding  her  in  a  curious  wistful  grip;  as  though  all  the 
inanimate  objects  with  a  sudden  life,  born  of  long 
association,  cried  to  her  that  because  for  so  long  they 
had  struggled  together  in  a  hard  existence  she  could 
not  leave  them  now. 

And  the  keenest  pathos  of  it  all  was,  that  nature, 
inanimate  objects,  and  indifferent  animals  were  all, 
now  that  it  came  to  parting,  that  Ellen  Daw's  whole 
life  had  brought  to  her  from  which  to  take  leave. 

For  a  little  while  she  stood  thus  in  the  centre  of  the 
kitchen,  then  with  a  whimsical  impulse  she  moved  a 
step  or  two  until  she  trod  upon  a  rickety  old  board 
that  creaked  with  her  weight.  Its  protesting  cry  was 
a  long-heard  voice  which  for  years  had  answered  at 
intervals  to  the  girl's  hurrying  feet  as  she  went  to  and 
fro  across  the  kitchen;  and  Ellen  chose  now  to  wake  its 
complaint  once  more,  because  it  was  part  of  the  accus 
tomed  whole,  which,  now  that  she  was  breaking  away 
from  it,  all  tugged  so  suddenly  and  so  strangely  at  her 
heart. 

She  stood  in  her  place  on  the  old  board,  and  as  she 
did  so  tears  began  to  burn  slowly  into  her  eyes. 

251 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

"I  —  I  dunno  why  I  keer  ter  leave  yer  all  so  much," 
she  faltered,  putting  her  unsteady  hands  up  to  her 
face.  "  I've  jest  hated  it  all  lots  of  times.  Hated  ther 
lonesomeness  an'  ther  hard  work  an'  everything,  an' 
now,  seems  like  I  must  er  keered  fer  hit  after  all." 

She  stretched  out  her  arms  to  the  room,  and,  with 
the  action,  again  the  closeness  of  long  familiarity 
rushed  upon  her  achingly. 

For  a  moment  longer  she  stood,  then  dropping  her 
arms  quickly  she  turned  and  went  resolutely. into  the 
main  room. 

Her  mother  still  sat  in  the  same  blank  attitude  in 
the  doorway,  only  now  that  the  chickens  were  gone 
she  played  childishly  with  her  fingers. 

Ellen  went  past  her,  and  going  to  the  high  chimney- 
piece  stood  upon  tiptoes  and  reached  one  hand  up, 
groping  along  the  shelf.  In  a  moment  her  fingers 
struck  the  thing  for  which  she  sought,  and  when  she 
drew  her  hand  down  again  she  held  in  it  Silas  Daw's 
pistol.  Searching  hastily  in  an  old  cigar  box  she  found 
the  cartridges,  and  with  trembling  fingers  slipped  a 
load  into  place.  With  the  snapping  to  of  the  barrel, 
the  sudden  full  revelation  of  what  she  meant  to  do 
rushed  upon  her,  and  with  a  sick  repulsion  she  flung 
the  pistol  upon  the  table,  and  springing  back  a  pace 
or  two  stood  looking  at  it  with  staring  frightened  eyes 
of  fascination,  as  though  she  looked  at  a  snake. 

For  a  moment  she  gazed  at  it,  facing  all  that  it 
meant,  and  slowly  she  began  to  be  overwhelmed  by  a 
desolate  bewildered  fright,  a  terror  of  her  very  self 

252 


ELLEN   DAW   SAYS   FAREWELL 

and  of  her  intention.  She  had  broken  from  all  her 
accustomed  anchors,  and  faced  a  thing  that  was 
appalling. 

Oh!  what  was  she  planning  to  do?  And  why  was 
there  never  any  one  by  to  give  her  aid  or  counsel  when 
she  needed  it  ? 

An  overpowering  desire  for  human  touch  and  com 
fort  came  upon  her  —  something,  some  one,  to  save 
her  from  her  own  mad  self.  Wildly,  in  the  extremity 
of  her  need,  she  looked  toward  her  mother.  The 
woman's  eyes  answered  hers  with  their  perpetual 
blankness,  but  empty  as  they  were,  still  they  were 
human,  and  with  a  frightened  cry  Ellen  fled  across 
the  room,  and  buried  her  face  against  her  shoulder  — 
"Mammy,  Mammy!"  she  cried,  clinging  to  her  — 
and  it  seemed  as  though  the  sharpness  of  her  necessity 
must  wake  some  response  in  the  other's  dead  personality. 

"Mammy,  Mammy,"  she  sobbed  again,  cowering 
closer  against  her.  A  light  stirred  in  the  expression 
less  face  and  some  old  far-away  memory  of  the  days 
before  her  fall,  and  before  her  little  babies  had  slipped 
away,  seemed  to  come  faintly  back  to  the  old  woman, 
and  as  though  Ellen  were  a  tiny  child  she  put  her 
arms  about  her  and  soothed  her  with  murmuring 
baby  talk. 

"What  is  hit,  honey;  what  is  hit  —  can't  hit  tell  hit's 
Mammy?" 

Ellen  drew  herself  up  in  swift  surprise  and  searched 
the  withered  face.  Was  there  a  gleam  of  returning 
reason  there?  But  even  while  she  gazed  eagerly,  the 

2S3 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

momentary  maternal  expression  died  away,  swallowed 
by  the  old  vacant  look,  and  pushing  the  girl  from  her 
the  old  woman  clapped  her  hands  together  and  broke 
into  the  fragment  of  a  foolish  song,  her  body  swaying 
with  the  tune  and  her  eyes  lit  with  empty  merriment. 

Ellen  sprang  to  her  feet  and  turned  again  to  the 
table.  For  a  little  space  longer  she  stood  wavering 
before  the  pistol,  then  with  a  sudden  swoop  she  caught 
it  up  and  fled  desperately  out  of  the  house. 

She  ran  with  bent  head,  scudding  along  like  a 
pursued  animal,  past  the  stable  and  along  the  path  out 
to  the  main  road,  which,  running  up  from  the  Jump 
ing  Creek  Draft,  dips  over  the  mountain  here,  and 
going  down  to  the  free  bridge  crosses  Drupe  River 
there  and  runs  away  to  the  farms  beyond. 

Ellen  checked  her  rapid  pace  when  she  came  into 
the  road,  and  drew  herself  down  to  a  walk,  for  she  needed 
time  to  think  and  to  plan. 

The  daylight  was  almost  gone  and  the  murky  thunder 
clouds  made  the  sky  very  black  in  the  pause  between 
daylight  and  dark.  The  strength  of  the  storm  seemed 
gathering  itself  for  a  terrific  climax  in  deeper  and 
deeper  drawn  breaths.  Occasionally  a  gust  of  wind 
went  by,  only  to  leave  the  stillness  more  still  and 
oppressively  expectant  than  ever. 

Ellen  had  gone  only  a  little  distance  when  she  be 
came  aware  of  two  of  the  lumber  men  from  Whit- 
comb's  mill  approaching  her  swiftly  out  of  the  gloom. 

With  a  hasty  movement  she  hid  the  pistol  under  her 
apron  and  stood  waiting,  and  when  the  men  came  up 

254 


ELLEN   DAW   SAYS   FAREWELL 

to  her,  her  overwrought  manner  was  gone,  and  she 
was  just  the  shrinking,  reserved  girl  that  they  were 
accustomed  to  meeting  occasionally  on  the  road. 

"  Kin  you  all  tell  me  where  I  kin  find  Kip  Ryerson  ?" 
she  inquired,  after  the  customary  "good  evening"  had 
passed  between  them.  "I  —  I  got  er  message  fer 
him!" 

"Then  you  better  look  sharp  an'  giv'  hit  ter  him 
ternight  fer  termorrer  mornin'  won't  find  him  in  these 
parts,"  one  of  the  men  laughed. 

"Where  is  he?"  she  persisted. 

"He's  in  camp,  right  this  minute  —  er  he  was  when 
we  come  erway,  but  he's  ergittin'  his  kit  tergether  ter 
light  out.  He  laid  up  in  ther  woods  back  er  camp  all 
ther  evenin'  thinkin'  that  Cree  feller'd  be  after  him, 
but  some  way  he  didn't  come,  an'  Kip  he  crep'  inter 
camp  jest  er  little  while  ergo  an'  tole  ther  boss  he  was 
goin'  ter  quit  —  an'  I  don't  reckon  even  this  storm'll 
keep  him  from  leavin',  he's  scared  up  so  bad." 

"Which  way  will  he  go?"  Ellen  demanded. 

"He  ain't  said;  but  he's  most  sure  ter  go  erlong  this 
erway,  an'  make  down  fer  ther  free  bridge,  fer  he 
certainly  ain't  goin'  back  into  ther  Draft.  Ef  yer  jest 
wait  here  er  little  spell  you'll  be  most  sure  ter  see  him 
d'rectly,  fer  I  reckon  he  mus'  er  got  started  by  now." 

A  sharp  thunder- clap  cut  his  words  off. 

"But  ef  yer  message  ain't  mighty  important,"  he 
added  as  the  thunder  rolled  away;  "you  better  let  hit 
go,  an'  shoot  fer  home;  fer  its  comin'  one  er  ther  biggest 
storms  I  ever  seed,  an'  that's  sayin'  er  right  smart"; 

255 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

and  as  though  in  confirmation  of  his  words  a  high  gust 
of  wind  and  driven  spatter  of  rain-drops  struck  them. 

"Come  on!"  he  cried  to  his  companion,  "er  we'll 
not  make  hit  ter  kiver  'fore  she  busts."  And  clapping 
their  hats  tightly  on  their  heads,  they  set  off  running 
up  the  road,  their  thick  boots  clumping  heavily  over 
the  stones.  Almost  immediately  the  darkness  snatched 
them  from  Ellen's  sight,  but  for  some  time  she  could 
still  hear  their  running  feet,  until  the  sound  was  lost 
in  another  thunder  crash  and  scud  of  wind  and  rain. 

Overhead  the  wind  hissed  through  the  tossed 
branches,  and  only  by  putting  her  hand  against  the 
trunk  of  a  tree  could  Ellen  herself  stand  against  the 
fury  of  it.  Through  the  darkness  the  lightning  winked 
incessantly,  like  the  opening  and  shutting  of  a  great 
eye,  and  in  sharp  cracks  the  thunder  followed  close  in 
its  wake.  In  the  distance  the  main  body  of  oncoming 
rain  roared  with  the  full  sound  of  a  cataract,  coming 
nearer  and  nearer  in  blown  sheets. 

Ellen  cowered  against  a  tree  for  shelter  and  support, 
and  waited,  her  throat  tight  with  nervous  excitement, 
and  waves  of  trembling  surged  over  her  every  now  and 
again.  But  her  fear  was  not  the  fear  of  the  storm,  it 
was  the  agonizing  terror  of  herself,  and  of  the  thing 
she  meant  to  do. 

Blown  through  and  through  by  the  wind,  and 
drenched  to  the  skin,  she  sank  down  to  a  sitting  posture, 
and  bending  forward  clasped  her  arms  about  her  knees, 
sheltering  with  her  body  the  pistol,  which  lay  a  dead 
weight  in  her  lap.  Sitting  thus  in  the  riotous  grip  of 

256 


ELLEN   DAW   SAYS   FAREWELL 

the  storm  and  of  her  own  emotions,  she  listened  with 
drawn  breath  for  the  sound  of  approaching  footsteps. 
And  at  last  in  a  moment's  lull  of  the  wind  and  storm 
she  heard  them;  heavy  footsteps,  stumbling  and  gro 
ping  over  the  rough  way,  and  once  a  curse  went  with 
them. 

Very  slowly  and  very  quietly,  like  a  stealthy  wind- 
driven  shadow,  Ellen  Daw  rose  to  her  feet;  very  cau 
tiously,  with  a  tiny  unheard  click,  she  cocked  the  pistol. 

Except  when  an  occasional  blue  flame  of  lightning 
drank  up  the  darkness,  all  her  senses  were  merged 
in  that  of  listening,  and  she  stood  with  ears  keen  for 
every  sound.  Suddenly  a  flash  lit  the  whole  road  in 
dazzling  brilliance,  and  in  the  moment  of  its  intensity 
Ellen  saw  a  man's  figure  still  a  little  distance  away 
coming  up  the  uneven  track  toward  her.  Then  the 
soft  lid  of  darkness  shut  down  once  more,  and  the  girl 
drew  a  faint  quivering  breath,  and  again  set  herself 
to  wait  and  to  listen  for  the  footsteps,  through  the  up 
roar  of  the  storm  the  violence  of  which  increased  every 
moment.  Stumbling  among  the  loose  stones  the  man 
came  on.  He  was  opposite  her  on  the  road  now,  but 
all  was  still  dark.  Silently  she  extended  her  arm, 
finger  on  trigger,  ready  for  the  next  instant  of  light. 
She  heard  him  utter  a  protesting  complaint  over  the 
obscurity  of  the  way,  and  his  footsteps  went  on  a  little 
further.  Then  it  came  —  an  intense  vividly  illuminat 
ing  flash.  In  the  outspread  wings  of  light  Ellen  saw 
the  man  held  sharply  up  to  view,  flashed  upon,  and 
enveloped  in  the  brilliance  as  though  he  were  the 

257 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

only  thing  to  see  in  all  the  world.  His  back  was 
toward  her,  and  at  that  she  fired,  and  on  the  instant 
the  lightning  disappeared  into  darkness. 

She  heard  the  man  utter  a  startled  cry,  but  it  was  one 
of  surprise,  not  pain,  and  she  knew  that  she  had  missed; 
then  the  sharp  crackling  of  the  thunder  leaped  out  en 
gulfing  all  in  its  heavy  voice;  and  as  it  died  away,  the 
lightning  flash,  the  report  of  the  pistol,  the  man's  cry 
and  the  grey  roll  of  the  thunder  seemed  all  fleeing  away 
into  the  darkness  and  out  into  space,  to  quiver  forever 
down  the  ages  upon  each  other's  horrified  footsteps. 

As  the  thunder  died  Ellen  heard  a  crashing  and 
scattering  of  stones  and  knew  that  the  man  was  plun 
ging  toward  her  furiously  in  the  dark. 

She  had  fired  her  shot  and  missed,  and  with  the  action 
all  power  had  gone  out  of  her.  Like  a  limp  and  dead 
winter  vine  she  clung  to  the  tree  trunk,  unable  to  move, 
though  she  knew  the  man  rushed  upon  her,  beside  him 
self  with  anger,  and  that  the  next  breath  of  lightning 
would  deliver  her  into  his  hands. 

She  was  not  dead  to  the  fear  of  it  all,  yet  she  could 
not  move,  even  to  steal  around  the  tree  and  place  its 
trunk  between  herself  and  the  groping  eager  vengeance 
that  the  dark  held.  He  was  very  close  now,  and  she 
could  hear  his  quick  breaths.  She  leaned  against  the 
tree  all  but  unconscious  with  terror  and  dread  of  the 
lightning. 

The  lightning  held  off;  yet  feeling  along  with  out 
stretched  arms  one  of  the  man's  groping  hands  brushed 
against  her  shoulder. 

258 


ELLEN   DAW   SAYS   FAREWELL 

The  sudden  touch,  the  nearness  of  him,  and  the 
black  intensity  of  it  all,  tore  away  Ellen's  numbed 
silence,  and  on  the  instant  that  he  touched  her  she 
screamed  piercingly  and  sprang  away. 

With  a  plunge  he  was  upon  her,  flinging  furious 
gripping  arms  about  her  waist.  Again  and  again  she 
screamed  in  an  ecstasy  of  mad  terror;  and  as  though  in 
answer  to  her  cries,  the  lightning  opened  wide  sudden 
eyes  of  horror  upon  the  scene,  and  for  an  instant  held 
the  man  and  girl  in  the  white  hollow  of  its  light. 

With  struggling  panic-stricken  strength  Ellen  tried 
to  tear  herself  free;  and  as  her  assailant  held  her  in  his 
raging  grasp  he  lifted  his  face,  and  all  at  once  she  saw 
that  it  was  the  face  of  Adrian  Blair  and  on  the  instant 
he  recognized  her. 

"  Ellen  Daw!  "he  screamed,  mad  with  excitement; 
and  reeled  aside  to  let  the  fury  of  his  strength  pass  her. 
Ellen  fell  away  out  of  his  relaxed  arms  an  unconscious 
heap,  and  the  black  darkness  shut  down  upon  them. 


259 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  REASON  FOR  THE  HOUSE 

WHEN  Ellen  Daw  opened  her  eyes  once  more  to 
renewed  consciousness,  it  was  to  find  herself  lying 
upon  the  hay  heaped  in  one  corner  of  the  little  sloping 
shed  backed  against  Silas  Daw's  dilapidated  stable. 
The  lantern  that  she  usually  kept  there,  in  case  her 
chores  at  the  barn  detained  her  after  dark,  was  lighted 
now  and  swung  from  its  peg  in  the  wall,  its  rays  send 
ing  a  faint  illumination  over  near-by  objects,  and  creep 
ing  away  into  the  shadowy  corners  glimmered  almost 
to  obscurity  in  their  blackness. 

Outside  the  wind  still  went  by  in  shrill  gusts;  the 
rain  trampled  upon  the  roof,  and  every  now  and  again 
pallid  blue  lightning  stooped  suddenly  out  of  the 
black  wilderness  of  the  sky  and  looked  in  at  the  shed's 
open  sides. 

Evidently  Adrian  Blair  had  brought  her  there  after 
she  lost  consciousness,  for  he  was  standing  over  her 
knee  deep  in  the  hay,  his  face  excited  and  very  angry. 

"What  do  yer  mean  by  shootin'  at  me  outer  ther  dark 
like  that?"  he  demanded  furiously  as  their  eyes  met. 

Ellen  put  her  hands  to  her  temples  and  looked  about 
her  in  wild  bewilderment;  than  all  at  once,  pressing 

260 


THE  REASON  FOR  THE  HOUSE 

her  face  deep  into  the  hay,  she  broke  into  a  storm  of 
low  desolate  sobs. 

At  first  her  tears  came  only  from  the  awfulness  and 
terror  of  the  last  few  hours;  but  gradually  as  she  wept 
the  vividness  of  the  present  relaxed  a  little,  and  one 
after  another  all  the  lonely  miseries  of  her  past  rose  up 
before  her,  demanding  their  full  measure  of  tears, 
which  always  she  had  denied  them.  The  desolation 
of  her  whole  life;  her  unhappy  neglected  childhood; 
the  bitter  impossibility  of  the  work  laid  upon  her;  the 
poverty  and  shabbiness  staring  at  her  always  with  for 
lorn  eyes;  her  own  hard  shyness,  that  came  so  fatally 
between  herself  and  any  show  of  friendliness;  Mary's 
tragedy;  and  lastly  again  the  horror  of  herself,  and  of 
the  thing  she  had  tried  to  do;  all  these  heartaches 
strung  themselves  into  a  rosary  of  grief,  and  to  each 
she  gave  a  portion  of  her  bitter  tears.  For  the  misery 
of  the  past  she  wept ;  for  the  awful  present,  and  for  the 
barren  stretches  of  the  dead  future  which  opened  be 
fore  her. 

Adrian  stood  looking  down  at  her  shaken  figure, 
and  presently  a  little  of  the  anger  began  to  die  from  his 
usually  gay  face,  which  was  never  meant  for  any  long 
holding  of  wrath. 

Leaning  down  at  length  he  put  his  hand  upon  her 
shoulder : 

"What  did  yer  shoot  at  me  like  that  fer?"  he  per 
sisted  shaking  her  a  little. 

At  his  touch  Ellen  struggled  again  to  a  sitting  pos 
ture.  Her  sobs  checked  themselves,  and  pushing  her 

261 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

hair  back  from  her  forehead  she  looked  at  him  for  a 
moment  in  dazed  silence. 

She  was  forcing  herself  out  of  her  confusion  of 
accumulated  suffering  and  overwrought  excitement, 
and  trying  to  place  Adrian  and  bring  her  mind  to  take 
hold  upon  his  question. 

In  the  lantern  light  her  eyes  shone  through  their  mist 
of  tears  with  a  flame  of  mysterious  unhappiness,  as 
though  they  had  looked  into  the  unknown  waste  places 
of  grief. 

Her  hair  lay  heavy  and  very  black  upon  her  brow, 
and  her  whole  appearance  was  unusual  and  different 
from  anything  Adrian  had  ever  known.  And  as  always 
when  her  real  emotions  were  touched,  her  true  self 
awoke  suddenly  and  sweeping  away  the  barrier  of  her 
shyness  took  swift  and  rightful  possession  of  her  per 
sonality. 

"I  thought  you  was  Kip  Ryerson,"  she  said  at  length, 
answering  his  question. 

"Kip  Ryerson!"  he  cried  in  amazement.  "What's 
Kip  done  ter  you?"  he  demanded  quickly. 

"He  ain't  done  nothin',"  she  answered,  her  voice 
far-away  and  lifeless. 

"Ain't  done  nothin' !  An'  yit  you  tried  ter  shoot  him 
out  er  ther  dark!"  he  cried  incredulously.  Suddenly 
an  idea  rose  before  him,  and  again  anger  leaped  into  his 
eyes. 

"I  know  why  yer  done  hit,"  he  cried,  "yer  done  hit 
'cause  yer  love  David  Cree!" 

Ellen  looked  at  his  flushed  face  steadily  for  a  moment 
262 


THE  REASON  FOR  THE  HOUSE 

before  she  answered.  She  was  not  angry  as  she  had 
been  the  other  times  when  he  had  accused  her  of  caring 
for  David.  Then  her  anger  had  been  kindled  sharply 
by  mortification,  for  he  had  laid  a  scornful  hand  upon 
what  she  believed  to  be  the  truth;  but  her  feelings  had 
travelled  so  far  from  that  old  imagined  emotion  that 
his  facing  her  with  it  now  seemed  almost  preposterous; 
and  too  impossible  an  idea  even  to  humiliate  her. 

"No,"  she  returned  finally,  "no,  I  don't  keer  fer 
him."  She  spoke  so  quietly,  and  with  such  unmoved 
strength  of  conviction,  that  Adrian  knew  beyond  a 
doubt  that  she  spoke  the  truth. 

"Then  what  in  ther  name  er  sense  did  yer  do  hit 
fer?"  he  questioned,  dumbfounded. 

"I  did  hit  'cause  I  keer  erbout  Mary  Reddin,"  she 
answered  simply. 

Adrian  gave  vent  to  a  long  whistle  of  astonishment; 
and  Ellen  knew  that  her  reply  had  brought  his  imagina 
tion  to  an  incredible  standstill,  as  though  a  blank  wall 
rose  up  before  him,  and  suddenly  a  desire  to  make  him 
understand  seized  her. 

"Set  down  here  fer  er  little  bit,"  she  said  laying  her 
hand  upon  the  hay  at  her  side,  "an'  I'll  tell  yer  how  hit 
all  was." 

Adrian  hesitated  a  moment,  but  finally  dropped 
down  beside  her,  awaiting  her  explanation  in  silent 
mystification. 

Ellen  clasped  her  hands  about  her  knees  and  began, 
her  expression  aloof,  and  her  eyes  looking  out  into  the 
soft  murk  of  darkness,  as  though  there  on  the  curtain 

263 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

of  the  night  she  saw  the  events  of  the  afternoon  thrown 
magic-lantern  like. 

"I  was  comin'  home  from  A'nt  Mary's,"  she  said 
with  simple  directness,  "an'  hit  was  so  awful  warm  by 
ther  road  that  when  I  come  ter  ther  little  path  goin' 
through  ther  woods  by  ther  Hull  graveyard,  I  turned 
erlong  hit;  an'  when  I  come  ter  ther  place  where  hit 
runs  over  ther  fence  an'  down  ergin  ter  ther  road,  I 
was  so  hot  I  jest  set  down  on  er  log  back  er  little  piece, 
in  ther  woods,  ter  rest  an'  cool  off  er  spell.  An'  while 
I  was  er  settin'  there  Dave  Cree  an'  Mary  Reddin  come 
erlong,  but  they  didn't  see  me  fer  I  was  sorter  hid  by 
ther  bresh  an'  wild  honeysuckles.  Mary  was  walkin' 
holdin'  on  ter  Dave's  hand,  an'  jest  lookin'  up  into 
his  face  every  little  bit,  so  scared  an'  so  pitiful,  like  she 
thought  every  second  he  was  goin'  ter  slip  erway  from 
her,  an'  Dave  he  looked  like  he  was  way  off  ter  hisself 
in  some  lost  place.  An'  when  they  come  ter  ther  fence, 
Dave  jest  turned  round  an'  said  'Good-by' — speak- 
in'  right  quiet,  an'  when  he  said  hit  I  knowed  all  in  er 
minute  what  he  was  goin'  ter  do.  An'  Mary  — " 
Ellen  faltered  a  moment,  and  when  she  went  on  her 
voice  had  taken  on  new  shades  of  tenderness.  "An' 
Mary,"  she  continued,  "jest  went  down  on  her  knees 
an'  begged  him  not  ter  go,  an'  done  everything  she 
knowed  ter  keep  him;  but  hit  didn't  do  no  good,  fer 
in  ther  end  he  climbed  over  ther  fence  an'  went  on 
down  ther  hill.  An'  Mary  stood  an'  watched  him  fer 
er  little  spell,  like  she  jest  couldn't  take  hit  in  that  he'd 
left  her,  an'  then  all  of  a  sudden,  when  she  knowed  hit 

264 


THE  REASON  FOR  THE  HOUSE 

was  really  so,  she  put  her  head  down  against  ther  fence 
an'  cried  like  she'd  cry  her  heart  out  —  fer  she'd  tole 
David  ef  he  did  anything  ter  Kip  he  shouldn't  never 
hev  her,  an'  I  know  she  ment  hit." 

Ellen  paused  as  she  had  paused  often  during  her 
narrative,  looking  out  into  the  darkness  as  though  the 
scene  flashed  out  before  her  and  she  waited  a  moment 
looking  at  it  before  going  on  again. 

"An',  an'  then  after  Dave  had  gone,"  she  resumed, 
"I  come  out  from  where  I'd  been  settin',  an'  when 
Mary  seed  me  she  jest  come  inter  my  arms  like  er  little 
hurt  child  what  didn't  know  hits  way.  An'  then  after 
er  little  bit  she  went  on  home,  but  first  she  put  her 
arms  round  my  neck  an'  said  she  loved  me." 

Ellen  got  slowly  to  her  feet,  clinching  her  young  toil- 
worn  hands  hard  together,  and  when  she  spoke  it  was 
in  a  low  voice  all  to  herself,  as  though  Adrian  Blair 
were  forgotten. 

"She  was  ther  only  livin'  soul  on  God's  earth  ever 
said  she  loved  me,"  she  said  softly.  "I've  lived  all  my 
life,"  she  went  on  after  a  little,  with  bitterness  in  her 
tone  — "I've  lived  all  my  life  jest  natu'ally  hungry  an' 
thirsty  fer  somebody  ter  say  they  keered  whether  I 
lived  in  ther  world  er  got  out  er  hit;  an'  ther  ain't  never 
been  one  soul  ter  say  hit  till  she  did.  I  wouldn't  er 
keered  who  hit  was  —  er  ole  woman  er  a  ole  man  — 
any  po'  pitiful  thing  nobody  didn't  hev  no  use  for 
would  er  been  better 'n  nothin',  an'  good  ernough  fer 
me,  so  long  es  they  keered  fer  me.  But  ther  jest  ain't 
never  been  nobody.  Not  one  single  living  soul.  I've 

265 


loved  lots  er  folks  in  my  heart,  an'  kinder  tried  ter 
fool  myself  by  playin'  like  they  keered  fer  me  —  but  I 
allers  knowed  well  enough  they  never  did  —  they 
didn't  even  want  my  love,  let  erlone  givin'  me  any  er 
their'n." 

She  paused,  her  face  flushed  and  the  tears  gathering 
again  slowly  in  her  eyes. 

"Lots  an'  lots  er  times,"  she  went  on,  "I've  fed 
stray  dogs  that  come  erlong  an'  petted  'em,  an'  took 
home  little  half-starved  cats,  folks  hed  lef  erlong  ther 
road,  'cause  hit  allers  seemed  ter  me  they  was  jest  what 
I'd  er  been  ef  I'd  er  been  er  dog  or  a  cat — ther  wouldn't 
er  been  nobody  ter  keer  fer  me  neither,  an'  I'd  er  been 
flung  out  on  ther  road  ter  starve  jest  like  they  was. 
An'  when  I  took  'em  home,  I  allers  wondered  ef  God 
keered  ernough  fer  them  ter  send  me  erlong  ter  take 
'em  in  and  be  good  to  'em,  why  he  didn't  keer  ernough 
fer  me  ter  send  somebody  erlong  ter  love  me.  An'  — 
an'  then,"  she  faltered  painfully;  "I  got  er  think'n' 
that  maybe  even  God  didn't  keer  fer  me  —  not  even 
God  —  es  ef  ther  was  somethin'  wrong  an'  cur'us 
erbout  me,  that  jest  rose  up  betwixt  me  an'  any  kind 
er  love  er  happiness.  An'  then  — "  her  eyes  suddenly 
grew  luminous,  and  her  whole  face  lit  up  —  "  an'  then," 
she  cried  triumphantly,  "Mary  Reddin,  ther  sweetest 
little  thing  an'  ther  prettiest  little  thing  in  ther  whole 
Draft,  she  come  inter  my  arms,  an'  said  she  loved  me, 
an'  when  she  said  hit  her  face  looked  jest  like  one  er 
these  here  little  white  spring  flowers  with  ther  rain  on 
hit.  She  said  she  loved  me,"  she  repeated  lingering 

266 


THE  REASON  FOR  THE  HOUSE 

over  the  words.  "  She  said  she  loved  me,  an'  —  an'  God 
knows  I  would  er  died  fer  her." 

She  stood  perfectly  still,  in  silence,  and  though  she 
made  no  gesture  save  the  tight  clinching  of  her  tired 
hands,  Adrian  know  that  the  whole  foundations  of  her 
being  were  shaken. 

He  watched  her  for  a  moment,  and  then  put  out  his 
hand  and  just  touched  her  shoulder  softly. 

"Po'  little  thing,"  he  said.  Ellen  turned  and  looked 
at  him,  as  though  she  came  back  from  far  away;  and 
at  his  touch  and  look  her  face  took  on  a  swift  surprise. 

She  sank  down  upon  the  hay  once  more,  and  draw 
ing  a  deep  breath  stumbled  on  with  her  story. 

"An'  then  on  my  'way  home,  wilst  I  was  thinkin' 
what  I  could  do  fer  Mary,  hit  come  ter  me  all  at  onct 
that  ef  I  —  ef  I  —  killed  Kip,  hit  would  make  hit  all 
right  fer  her.  An'  I  kep'  thinkin'  ter  myself  that  hit 
didn't  matter  what  happened  ter  me,  'cos  I  was  jest 
nothin'  ter  nobody.  An'  so  I  —  I  fixed  ter  do  hit  — 
but  oh!"  she  broke  off  suddenly,  wild  terror  in  her 
eyes.  "  Oh !  I  was  skeered,  I  was  skeered !  Hit  seemed 
so  awful  an'  wicked."  She  shrank  away,  burying  her 
face  in  her  arms  and  shivering  in  long  frightened 
tremors.  In  a  moment  she  raised  her  face  to  his 
again,  looking  at  him  with  dark  beseeching  eyes. 

"I  didn't  do  hit,  did  I?"  she  cried  distractedly. 
"Oh!  say  I  didn't  do  hit";  she  begged.  "Fer  oh! 
I'm  skeered  —  I'm  skeered  er  myself!" 

For  a  moment  the  strain  and  the  terror  of  it  had  all 
but  tossed  her  into  insanity.  Looking  at  her  distraught 

267 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

face,  Adrian  realized  this  with  the  quick  insight  which 
underlay  all  his  apparent  gay  indifference  —  and 
knew  that  he  must  act,  and  act  quickly.  Sinking  down 
beside  her  he  took  her  cold  hands  in  his. 

"You  po'  little  thing  —  po'  little  thing,"  he  said 
soothingly. 

"Did  I  do  hit?"  Did  I  do  hit?  she  breathed,  her 
fear-lit  eyes  imploring  him. 

"No,  yer  didn't  do  hit  —  er  'course  yer  didn't,"  he 
answered.  "God  wouldn't  er  let  yer  do  hit.  He 
wouldn't  er  let  er  po'  little  lonely  thing  fling  herself 
erway  like  that." 

His  strong  hands  quieted  her  with  a  gentle  tender 
ness,  and  his  voice  was  very  kind. 

"Yer've  lived  so  long  erway  from  folks  up  here, 
that  yer  got  ter  thinkin'  all  sorts  er  cur'us  things;  but 
even  ef  yer  didn't  b'lieve  hit  I  reckon  God  was  er- 
keerin'  fer  yer  all  ther  time." 

Suddenly  he  put  out  his  arm  and  drew  her 
strongly  to  him.  "An'  I  was  erkeerin'  too,"  he  said 
softly. 

But  his  gesture  startled  her  and  she  drew  away  with 
quick  fear. 

"  Don't  be  skeered  —  don't  be  skeered  er  me,  honey," 
he  murmured,  and  drew  her  back  to  him,  pressing  her 
head  down  against  the  hollow  of  his  shoulder. 

For  a  moment  Ellen  struggled  against  him,  but  he 
held  her  tenderly,  reassuringly,  and  at  length  she  lay 
still,  for  she  was  utterly  weary  and  half  beside  herself 
with  fright,  and  in  her  exhausted  bewilderment  she 

268 


THE  REASON  FOR  THE  HOUSE 

only  knew  that  it  was  good  for  once  to  be  held  in  the 
shelter  of  a  strength  greater  than  her  own. 

Outside  the  storm  went  on  tumultuously,  the  rain 
beating  upon  the  roof,  and  the  lightning  showing  in 
occasional  flares;  but  inside  for  a  long  time  there  was 
silence. 

At  length,  however,  looking  down  at  her  dark  face, 
beautiful  and  pathetic  in  its  weary  loneliness,  a  tender 
whimsical  smile  began  to  play  about  Adrian  Blair's 
mouth. 

"Who'd  yer  say  hit  was  keered  fer  yer?"  he  said 
at  last,  in  scarcely  more  than  a  whisper. 

Low  as  the  words  were  they  nevertheless  broke  the 
frozen  spell  of  Ellen's  bewilderment,  and  the  confused 
mist  of  her  mind  cleared  to  a  sudden  realization  of  the 
present;  and  with  the  colour  sweeping  over  her  face 
in  hot  waves  she  struggled  away  from  his  arms,  look 
ing  at  him  again  with  frightened  eyes. 

But  Adrian  persisted  in  the  question. 

"Who  did  yer  say  keered  fer  yer?"  he  said. 

"Mary  Reddin  said  she  did,"  Ellen  answered 
wonderingly,  and  made  a  motion  to  rise  to  her  feet. 

But  Adrian  with  a  laugh  drew  her  suddenly  back 
into  his  arms. 

"Who  did  yer  say  ?"  he  repeated. 

And  "Mary  Reddin,"  Ellen  faltered  again,  though 
her  voice  shook  and  her  eyes  were  wide  with  mingled 
terror  and  surprise. 

At  her  words  Adrian  stooped  quickly  and  kissed  her 
full  upon  the  lips. 

269 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

"Who?    Who?"  he  cried  again. 

And  Ellen's  heart  leaped  into  her  throat  with  a  sud 
den  astonished  bound,  and  she  was  silent. 

Adrian  laughed  again,  a  low  ripple  of  triumph. 

"Mary  Reddin!  Mary  Reddin!"  he  cried  scorn 
fully.  "I'm  ergoin'  ter  tell  yer  now  who  loves  yer  sure 
'nough." 

Ellen's  eyes  lighted  with  a  brilliant  astonishment, 
and  again  Adrian  kissed  her. 

"I  allers  knowed  yer  was  erlive,"  he  said  tenderly, 
"but  I  never  knowed  jest  what  was  ther  word  ter  wake 
yer  up  with.  How  long,"  he  broke  off,  "  der  yer  reckon 
I've  loved  yer?" 

Ellen  shook  her  head,  her  eyes  still  incredulous. 

"I  never  knowed  yer  loved  me  at  all,"  she  answered, 
for  she  thought  he  played  with  her,  and  again  she  tried 
in  vain  to  draw  herself  away  from  him. 

"I've  loved  yer,"  Adrian  went  on,  "ever  since  that 
time  I  was  tellin'  yer  erbout  this  mawnin'  when  ther 
dogs  got  ter  fightin'  in  ther  schoolhouse,  an'  you  was 
ther  only  thing  in  petticoats  thet  wa'n't  skeered.  I 
knowed  then  thet  yer  hed  ther  stuff  in  yer  thet  I  wanted, 
an'  I've  knowed  hit  right  erlong  ever  since.  An'  er 
heap  er  times  I  was  watchin'  out  fer  yer  when  yer 
never  guessed  hit.  Why — "  he  laughed  suddenly - 
"ther  worst  fight  I  most  ever  hed  at  school  was  with 
Len  Cooper  'cause  his  sister  laffed  at  yer  fer  comin' 
barefoot  ter  school  after  all  ther  other  children  hed  put 
on  their  shoes.  Len  was  er  right  smart  size  bigger'n 
me,  an'  I  hed  er  terrible  scuffle  fer  hit,  but  in  ther 

270 


THE  REASON  FOR  THE  HOUSE 

end  I  got  him  licked  good  an'  plenty  —  but  he  do' 
know  ter  this  day  why  hit  was  I  jumped  him  that  time," 
he  concluded  chuckling. 

Ellen's  eyes  still  dwelt  upon  his  face  in  a  great 
surprise. 

"An'  then  do  yer  recollect  how  ther  us'ent  ter  be 
no  foot  log  over  that  there  little  crick  at  ther  foot  er 
ther  mountain  ?  You  hed  ter  cross  hit  every  day  comin' 
ter  school,  an'  one  day  I  heered  ther  teacher  givin'  hit 
ter  yer,  because  you  was  all  wet,  an'  yer  said  ther  stones 
at  ther  crossin'  was  so  slick  that  you  slipped  offen  one 
er  them  an'  fell  inter  ther  water.  The  next  day  was 
Sat'dy,  an'  I  went  up  right  soon  in  ther  mornin'  an' 
fixed  er  foot  log  acrost  ther  crick  there"  —  he  laughed  at 
a  sudden  thought;  "I  recollect  I  wrote  on  er  little 
piece  er  paper  an'  put  hit  under  one  end  er  ther  log 
where  wouldn't  nobody  ever  see  hit  —  "Ain't  nobody 
ter  walk  on  this  log  but  my  sweetheart!  "  Reckon  that 
paper's  rotted  erway  long  ergo,  an'  heaps  er  other 
folks  hes  walked  over  on  that  log,  but  they  wouldn't 
none  er  them  er  got  ther  chanst  ter,  ef  my  sweetheart 
hadn't  er  slipped  in  there  that  time,"  he  concluded, 
looking  down  at  her  with  smiling  eyes. 

"But  whyn't  yer  never  tell  me  before?"  she  asked 
wonderingly,  and  even  yet  it  had  not  truly  come  home 
to  her. 

"Well,  really  I  do'  know.     I  wanted  ter  allers  — 
but  some  way  I  was  jest  natu'ally  skeered  ter.    When  I 
was  er  little  feller  I  said  I'd  tell  yer  when  I  was  growed ; 
an'  when  that  time  come,  I  said  I'd  save  up  some 

271 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

money  first,  an'  then  when  I  got  ther  money,  I  said  I'd 
wait  till  I'd  built  yer  ther  finest  house  anywhere  round 
here,  an  then  I'd  tell  yer.  But  when  ther  house  was 
done  I  was  jest  es  skeered  es  ever,  cause  yer  allers 
seemed  so  sorter  froze  up  an  cold.  I  did  low  ter  tell 
yer  that  day  I  helped  yer  plant  yer  corn,  but  sted  er 
tellin'  yer  I  jest  made  yer  mad  erbout  Dave.  An'  then 
this  mornin'  ergin  when  I  was  all  sorter  warmed  up 
from  fightin'  I  meant  ter  do  hit,  but  yer  got  mad  ergin 
erbout  him,  an'  I  commenced  ter  be  'fraid  yer  keered 
fer  him  sure  'nough.  An'  then  I  got  mad  with  myself 
fer  bein'  so  skeery  an'  I  jest  lowed  I'd  come  up  this 
evenin'  an'  tell  yer  no  matter  what  happened  —  but  I 
didn't  guess  what  would  happen  sure  'nough,"  he 
laughed.  "An'  now,  sweetheart,  I've  told  yer,"  he 
finished;  "an'  yer  needn't  never  say  ergin  nobody 
don't  keer  about  yer  er  want  yer  love  —  fer  I  want  hit 
—  all  of  hit  —  more'n  I  want  anything  else  in  ther 
world." 

He  paused  a  moment  searching  her  dark  eyes. 

"Have  yer  got  any  fer  me,  honey?"  he  asked  softly. 

Ellen  struggled  away  from  him,  and  holding  herself 
off  at  arm's  length,  looked  long  into  his  face  with 
questioning  eyes. 

"Oh!  is  hit  true,"  she  cried  at  length  painfully  - 
"is  hit  true  that  yer  want  me  an'  want  my  love?" 

"Hit's  true,  honey,"  he  answered  earnestly;  "hit's 
every  word  true.  I  want  yer  love  —  I  want  every  bit 
yer  got,  fer  all  mine's  yours." 

And  looking  at  him  Ellen  knew  at  last  that  it  was 
272 


THE   REASON   FOR   THE   HOUSE 

true,  and  as  she  went  back  to  the  shelter  of  his  arms 
all  the  old  wistful  unhappy  question  of  her  face  was 
lost  in  the  glorious  light  of  this  undreamed  of  answer. 

"An'  yer  house  is  all  ready  fer  yer  too,  sweetheart," 
he  whispered  after  a  pause.  "I've  got  ther  garden 
all  dug  an'  hit's  jest  waitin'  fer  you  ter  put  in  ther  seeds." 

"Ther  house  is  mighty  nice,  but  hit  ain't  ther  house 
I  keer  about,"  she  answered;  and  her  glance  swept 
over  him  with  the  stored  intensity  of  the  love  that  she 
had  gathered  out  of  all  the  lonely  years  of  weary 
neglect. 

"An'  jest  you  mind  this,"  Adrian  went  on  master 
fully;  "don't  yer  go  tryin'  ter  settle  things  fer  Mary 
Reddin  an'  Dave;  'cause  now  yer  belong  ter  me,  so 
yer  ain't  got  no  right  ter  fling  yerself  erway  like  that, 
fer  yer  don't  own  yerself  no  mo'." 

A  little  shy  smile  danced  about  Ellen's  mouth,  though 
her  eyes  were  surprised  to  tears  by  the  wonder  of  it  all. 

"I'm  glad  I  don't,"  she  answered;  "for  hit's  —  hit's 
nice  ter  belong  ter  somebody." 


273 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  PLAYERS 

WHEN  David  Cree  went  past  his  mother  and  sisters 
and  was  gathered  into  the  murk  of  that  sombre  evening, 
he  walked  with  a  resolute  step,  and  a  white  determina 
tion  of  face.  To  all  intents  and  purposes  he  was  once 
more  the  passionate  boy  of  twelve,  with  his  promise 
fresh  upon  him,  and  the  loss  of  his  father  poignantly 
new.  The  wave  of  his  mother's  fury  had  swept  him 
back  to  his  boyhood.  Her  terrible  words,  her  voice,  her 
gestures,  had  brought  him  face  to  face  with  the  past, 
had  washed  his  memory  of  the  last  ten  years  as  though 
they  had  never  been,  and  all  the  passion  of  that  bygone 
time  rushed  back  upon  him  in  currents  of  fire.  With 
the  accumulation  of  her  frenzied  bitterness,  she  had 
suddenly  lifted  away  the  weight  and  obscurity  of  the 
deadening  years,  uncovering,  as  it  were,  the  live  rage 
of  his  childhood.  The  past  was  upon  him,  and  the 
boy  he  had  been  and  the  man  he  was  struck  close  hands 
in  the  fellowship  of  hate,  and  went  forth  together  upon 
their  path  of  revenge. 

To  any  one  else  it  would  have  been  difficult  walking, 
for  the  storm  and  the  night  approached  in  company 

274 


THE  PLAYERS 

on  black  wings;  the  objects  seen  faintly  through  the 
dusk  took  on  fantastic  and  uncanny  shapes,  and  the 
wail  of  the  wind  seemed  just  the  voice  of  the  lost  dark 
ness  made  audible;  but  David  knew  the  Jumping 
Creek  Draft  from  end  to  end.  All  the  smallest  irregu 
larities  of  the  road  were  familiar  landmarks  to  him, 
and  the  swing  of  his  stride  was  almost  as  steady  as 
though  day  and  not  night  held  the  valley  in  its  hand. 

Evenly,  silently,  revenge  incarnate,  he  went  up  the 
main  track  of  the  Draft;  past  the  little  schoolhouse; 
past  the  huddle  of  farms  just  beyond  it,  where  the  dogs 
set  up  a  furious  barking  at  the  sound  of  his  footsteps, 
and  where  the  lamps  winking  from  the  different  scat 
tered  windows  were  evidence  of  a  life  which  seemed 
to  him  very  remote,  and  very  far  away  from  anything 
with  which  he  was  concerned  or  ever  had  been;  past 
the  knoll  where  Adrian  Blair's  empty  house  stood 
waiting  Ellen  Daw's  dark  presence,  he  went,  and  at 
last  struck  into  the  narrow  roadway  making  up  Drupe 
Mountain  to  the  Daws'  farm  and  to  Aleck  Whitcomb's 
lumber  camp.  In  the  desolation  of  that  lonely  path, 
where  the  mountains  on  either  side  went  up  like  black 
ramparts,  he  took  out  his  pistol  and  held  it  ready  in 
his  hand,  for  there  was  no  telling  to  what  the  loneliness 
and  obscurity  might  give  sudden  birth. 

Here  the  road  was  more  difficult  to  pick,  and  of 
necessity  he  went  slowly,  and  was  glad  every  time  the 
lightning  fled  along  the  way  before  him  on  winged 
feet.  Glad,  too,  of  every  crash  of  thunder,  and  every 
blown  devil  that  the  wind  loosed.  And  once  or  twice 

275 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

when  the  wind  was  very  strong,  and  the  lightning 
sharply  forked,  he  stopped  still  in  the  path  and  laughed 
furiously,  for  he  was  on  fire  with  the  need  of  fierce, 
blinding  action,  and  it  was  good  to  him  that  the  storm 
should  answer  his  mood;  that  the  darkness  should  be 
shriekingly,  flaringly  rent  asunder  by  the  wind  and 
lightning,  and  the  stillness  shivered  by  the  crackling 
thunder;  that  all  the  elements  should  be  torn  into  a 
riotous  uproar,  as  he  was  torn  with  the  dizzy  swirl  of 
his  own  anger. 

At  the  top  of  the  mountain  where  the  road  divides, 
the  left  fork  leading  down  to  the  river  by  way  of  the 
Daws'  farm,  and  the  right-hand  one  running  along  the 
mountain  to  Whitcomb's  lumber  camp,  David  turned 
down  the  latter,  and  that  short  mile  to  the  camp,  be 
cause  of  the  tantalizing  nearness  now  of  his  revenge, 
seemed  longer  to  his  impatient  feet  than  all  the  miles 
from  the  Draft  added  together. 

But  in  spite  of  its  infuriating  distance,  he  was  met  at 
last  by  the  sharp  smell  of  sawdust,  and  saw  in  the 
darkness  the  dim  shapes  of  the  piled  lumber,  the  mill 
shed,  and  the  other  few  buildings  of  the  camp. 

At  the  door  of  the  main  shack  Aleck  Whitcomb 
himself  faced  him  out  of  the  lamp-lit  interior  in  answer 
to  his  knock. 

As  he  saw  David's  face  in  the  outside  gloom,  which 
the  rays  from  the  faint  kerosene  lamp  at  his  back 
seemed  only  to  play  across  and  not  to  pierce,  Whit- 
comb  started  slightly. 

"Reckon  you  come  lookin'  fer  that  feller  who's  been 
276 


THE  PLAYERS 

goin'  by  ther  name  of  Jake  Green,  but  who's  really 
Kip  Ryerson  they  tell  me,"  he  said. 

"That's  what  I  am,"  David  answered  quietly,  mak 
ing  no  attempt  at  concealment.  He  was  going  to  kill 
Ryerson,  and  all  the  world  was  welcome  to  a  knowledge 
of  his  intentions.  There  was  no  caution  in  his  ven 
geance.  He  had  a  sort  of  furious  scorn  of  any  attempt 
to  save  himself,  and  if  it  had  been  possible  he  would 
have  liked  to  kill  the  man  with  all  the  Draft  lined  up 
as  witnesses  to  the  accomplishment  of  his  oath,  and  to 
do  it  before  them  all  with  his  bare  hands. 

Whitcomb  laughed  shortly  at  his  reply.  "Well,  you'll 
hev  ter  look  fer  him  somewheres  else,"  he  said.  "He 
left  these  parts  this  mornin'  'fore  dinner  —  I  hear  you 
giv'  him  er  right  good  reason  fer  goin'  at  preachin'." 

"Which  way'd  he  go?"  David  demanded. 

"Well,  really  he  was  in  sech  er  hurry  he  didn't  leave 
no  address,  but  I  know  mighty  well  he  didn't  go  down 
inter  ther  Draft,"  the  other  answered  jocosely. 

"Then  he's  gone  over  ther  mountain,  an'  down  ter 
ther  river,"  David  said  restlessly,  and  turned  to  go. 

"Yer'd  better  lay  up  here  in  camp  till  ther  storm's 
over,"  Whitcomb  urged  him;  but  David  shook  his 
head,  and  went  away  again  into  the  darkness,  though 
already  the  rain  was  beginning  heavily,  and  the  roar 
of  it  upon  the  iron  roofing  of  the  mill  shed  was  deafen 
ing. 

Whitcomb  turned  back  into  the  shack,  shutting  the 
door  after  him,  though  he  did  so  with  some  difficulty 
against  the  full  breath  of  the  wind. 

277 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

"Yer  kin  come  on  down  ergin  now,"  he  said,  raising 
his  voice  to  almost  a  shout  to  make  it  audible  above 
the  storm.  "He's  gone." 

From  the  loft  above,  at  his  words,  two  lank  legs 
swung  down  on  to  the  ladder,  and  then  paused  in  hesi 
tation. 

"Come  on,"  Whitcomb  shouted  again,  and  this  time 
there  was  a  savage  ring  in  his  voice. 

The  legs  came  down  a  rung  and  then  another  rung, 
and  as  they  descended  the  body  and  then  the  face  of 
Kip  Ryerson  came  into  view.  The  face  was  very  pale. 

"What  in  all  H  —  did  yer  want  ter  ask  him  in  for ?" 
he  demanded,  a  shake  in  his  voice. 

"Cause  I  pretty  well  guessed  he  wouldn't  come;  an' 
ef  he  had  I  lowed  I  could  trust  yer  ter  lay  right  close 
outer  sight  upstairs,"  the  other  returned.  "An'  now 
let  me  tell  yer  something,  Jake  Green,  er  Kip  Ryerson, 
er  whatever  yer  call  yerself  —  you'll  clear  outer  this 
by  ther  very  first  crack  er  day  er  I'll  know  ther  reason 
why.  Hit  won't  pay  yer  ter  hide  'round  here  no  longer 
thinkin'  I'm  goin'  ter  keep  Dave  Cree  offer  yer.  I've 
lied  ernough  erbout  yer  a'ready,  an'  ef  yer  think  I'm 
ergoin'  ter  keep  hit  up  yer  powerfully  mistaken.  I 
done  hit  this  time  not  out  er  any  perticular  regard  fer 
yer,  but  jest  because  Dave's  worked  fer  me,  an'  he's 
erbout  the  best  hand  in  ther  woods  I  ever  seed;  an' 
hands  is  too  scarce  a'ready  fer  me  ter  want  ter  run  ther 
resk  er  havin'  one  er  ther  best  ones  I  know  sent  ter  ther 
penitentiary  er  maybe  hung  fer  good.  So  yer'll  jest 
erblige  me  by  tryin'  ter  keep  outer  Dave  Cree's  way 

278 


THE  PLAYERS 

when  yer  light  out  in  ther  mornin'  —  jest  ter  erblige 
me,  yer  understan',"  he  concluded  with  a  roar  of  scorn 
ful  laughter. 

He  was  a  powerful  man  and  arrogant  with  the  knowl 
edge  of  his  strength,  and  of  his  ability  to  manage  other 
men,  and  he  stood  now  with  open  contempt,  regard 
ing  the  other's  weakly  evil  face,  consumed  as  it  was 
with  fear  and  with  furtive  rage. 

"Lord!"  he  went  on  with  a  fresh  burst  of  laughter. 
"How  yer  ever  got  up  ther  spunk  ter  resk  comin'  back 
inter  these  parts,  beats  me.  I  reckon  yer  must  er 
thought  Alderson  Cree's  murder  hadn't  made  no  more 
impression  on  other  folks  than  it  had  on  you  —  Now 
don't  trouble  yerself  ter  say  yer  didn't  do  hit,"  he  con 
tinued  quickly,  as  Ryerson  opened  his  mouth  in  blas 
phemous  denial,  "cause  everybody  knows  yer  did,  an' 
you'll  be  powerful  grateful  ter  me  when  Jedgement 
Day  comes  erlong  that  I  kep'  yer  from  one  lie  anyhow." 
He  paused  again,  and  again  the  contempt  of  his  glance 
swept  over  the  cowering  figure  before  him.  Again  he 
laughed,  and  at  the  laugh  and  the  hectoring  gaze,  hate, 
like  a  smothered  flame,  played  stealthily  in  Ryerson's 
dropped  eyes. 

"Now  mind  what  I  say,"  Whitcomb  went  on,  cross 
ing  over  to  the  door;  "daylight  sees  yer  cleared  outer 
here,  er  else  ther  next  daylight  mightn't  see  yer  at  all 
—  understan'?"  he  said  coolly,  pausing  one  moment 
to  drive  home  his  words  with  the  fixed  scorn  of  his 
eyes.  Then  he  jerked  open  the  door  and  still  laugh 
ing  turned  out  into  the  lumber  yard. 

279 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

In  just  the  second  that  his  retreating  back  was  pre 
sented  to  him,  the  smouldering  hate  of  Ryerson's  face 
blazed  up,  and  he  drew  his  pistol  like  a  flash.  But  in 
that  second  fear  spoke  to  him  sharply,  and  though 
rage  was  strong,  terror  was  stronger,  and  his  pistol  arm 
fell  back  harmless. 

And  Aleck  Whitcomb,  crossing  to  the  kitchen  where 
most  of  the  men  were  at  supper,  never  knew  in  his 
careless  arrogance  that  the  moment  before  he  had 
walked  upon  the  edge  of  the  next  world. 

David  groped  his  way  back  to  the  top  of  the  mountain 
where  the  roads  divide,  and  went  a  little  way  along  the 
one  leading  to  the  river,  but  the  full  shock  of  the  storm 
was  upon  him  now,  and  the  wind  and  rain  and  darkness 
were  thick  like  a  curtain,  and  as  he  struggled  to  make 
head  against  them  the  impossibility  of  finding  his  way 
safely  down  to  the  river  in  such  darkness  came  home 
to  him. 

Even  in  broad  daylight  the  path  was  an  uncertain 
one,  with  innumerable  confusing  branches,  and  dan 
gerous  too,  in  places  where  it  ran  along  the  edge  of  a 
cliff,  a  misstep  from  which  might  send  one  to  the 
bottom  with  a  broken  arm  or  leg,  or  very  possibly  a 
broken  neck;  and  even  in  his  passionate  haste  David 
knew  it  would  be  the  wildest  folly  to  attempt  it  now. 

By  the  roadside  a  short  distance  further  on  stood 
a  deserted  cabin,  and  remembering  it  David  decided 
to  seek  shelter  there,  and  thither,  with  his  anger  fretted 
to  a  white  heat  at  the  delay,  he  at  length  groped  his 
way,  and  entering  this  forlorn  and  decaying  refuge, 

280 


THE  PLAYERS 

in  the  dryest  corner  he  flung  himself  down  to  wait  for 
a  cessation  of  the  storm  and  the  lifting  of  the  darkness. 
He  was  drenched  to  the  skin,  and  the  rain,  coming  as  it 
did  in  the  wake  of  such  an  exceedingly  hot  day,  would 
have  seemed,  at  any  other  time,  chillingly  cold,  but 
David's  whole  being  was  on  fire  with  his  anger,  and  he 
lay  in  a  fever  of  hot  impatience,  chafing  savagely  at 
the  darkness  which  flung  such  soft  infuriating  arms 
across  the  path  of  his  vengeance.  But  gradually  as 
the  night  crept  on,  and  the  severity  of  the  storm  lulled 
to  a  delicate  whispered  melody  of  rain,  which  was 
infinitely  soothing,  and  yet  did  not  abate  anything  of 
the  impossible  darkness,  his  feelings  began  to  lose  a 
little  of  their  violence,  and  then  to  settle  to  a  strong 
quiet,  and  after  this  peace  had  been  with  him  for  a 
space,  slowly,  irresistibly,  on  silent  feet  his  love  came 
stealing  back  upon  him,  to  fling  her  arms  about  him 
in  his  remembrance  of  Mary;  to  whisper  to  him  with 
her  voice,  to  kiss  him  with  her  lips ;  to  look  at  him  with 
her  eyes.  The  feeling  was  illusive,  intangible  —  almost 
terrifying,  and  with  all  his  distracted  soul  David  fought 
against  it,  for  every  thought  and  remembrance  of  Mary 
struck  deadly  blows  at  the  power  of  his  hate.  Des 
perately  he  called  back  all  that  he  had  imagined  of  the 
carrying  out  of  his  revenge;  the  tingling  thought  of 
Ryerson  under  his  hands,  which  made  him  almost  sick 
with  a  desire  for  its  accomplishment  —  flinging  this 
rekindling  of  his  fury  in  the  face  of  his  love.  And  as 
hate  looked  at  her  with  red  eyes,  love  fled.  But  only 
a  moment  later  to  come  stealing,  stealing,  maddeningly 

281 


THE  SOWING   OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

back,  the  instant  hate  relaxed  her  clutch  ever  so  little. 
And  once,  in  a  sudden  aching  remembrance  of  Mary's 
agonized  face,  David  leaped  to  his  feet  with  a  great 
spring,  and  seizing  his  pistol  would  have  flung  it  through 
the  doorway,  far  away  from  him,  to  whirl  over  and 
over  in  its  flight,  and  then  to  lie  still  —  lost  in  the  dark 
wet  woods.  But  even  as  he  swung  his  arm  up  his 
promise  fled  back  upon  him  in  frightened  surprise, 
and  with  an  oath  that  came  from  the  very  bottom  of 
his  soul  his  hand  dropped.  Staggering  like  a  drunken 
man  he  went  back  to  the  corner  where  he  had  lain, 
astonished  at  himself  and  appalled  by  the  weakness 
that  had  almost  made  him  forget.  Once  more  he  lay 
down,  and  once  more  the  tides  of  conflict  rent  him 
back  and  forth;  and  always  Mary's  white  face  looked 
at  him,  and  her  voice  cried  to  him,  "Hit'll  kill  me 
Dave!  Hit'll  jest  kill  me!" 

But  far  in  the  night,  wet  and  uncomfortable  though 
he  was,  and  torn  though  he  was  by  his  emotions,  never 
theless  before  the  dawn  broke  he  fell  heavily,  dream- 
lessly  asleep  —  and  so  for  a  time  the  players,  love  and 
hate,  cried  off  their  game  —  perforce. 


282 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE   WORD   FROM   ALDERSON   CREE 

IF  the  heavens  had  opened  for  Ellen  Daw  when  Mary 
had  given  her  her  first  kiss  of  affection,  and  left  her 
standing  by  the  rail  fence  on  the  brow  of  the  steep 
ridge  overlooking  that  part  of  the  Draft,  and  in  her 
joyful  heart  calling  upon  Peter's  Ridge  as  a  glad  wit 
ness  of  her  new-found  happiness,  Mary's  state  of  mind, 
on  the  other  hand,  as  she  left  Ellen  and  went  slowly 
homeward  was  a  very  different  one.  The  heavens  of 
her  world  had  indeed  opened,  but  not  to  happiness. 
In  the  rift  they  had  suddenly  uncovered  to  her  a  thing 
that  was  appalling  —  beyond  all  her  comprehension. 
In  spite  of  her  very  agony  of  loving  effort,  David  had 
left  her;  had  broken  the  bonds  of  love  as  easily  as  Sam 
son  had  snapped  "the  seven  green  withes  that  had 
never  been  dried,"  and  had  set  out  on  his  feverish  path 
of  vengeance,  swept  along  by  hate,  though  all  the  time 
he  knew  —  he  knew  —  love  stayed  behind  and  stretched 
anguished  arms  to  him.  She  had  gathered  herself  for 
her  supreme  effort  —  never  doubting  her  power, 
coupled  as  it  was  with  love  —  had  made  it,  and  had 
failed  utterly. 

David's  putting  her  from  him,  and  going  down  the 
283 


THE  SOWING   OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

path,  had  been  to  her  a  stunning,  an  utterly  incom 
prehensible  blow.  For  with  her  love  was  everything, 
was  her  universe  —  and  that  in  David  another  emotion 
should  have  risen  up  suddenly  stronger  was  to  her 
unbelievable  —  for  Mary  was  still  very  young,  too 
young  for  any  sustained  feeling  of  hate,  only  for  love. 
And  now  in  the  face  of  this  new  revelation  her  heart 
stood  still  within  her,  overwhelmed  and  dumbfounded. 

She  was  frozen  by  the  utter  weary  terror  of  it  all; 
by  the  suddenness  with  which  her  happy  paradise  of 
the  morning  had  been  shattered,  and  by  the  thought 
of  the  awful  thing  which  might  even  then  be  taking 
place.  Moreover,  she  was  physically  and  mentally 
exhausted  by  her  supreme  effort  of  pleading,  and  by 
the  last  strained  hours  of  watching  David  and  trying 
with  a  fearful  intuition  to  anticipate  his  every  impulse. 

Her  heart  lay  like  a  cold  weight  in  her  bosom,  and 
her  feet  dragged  heavily  down  the  path,  yet  had  she 
guessed  that  just  across,  on  the  other  side  of  the  valley, 
David  lay  upon  his  face  in  the  green  silence  of  the 
woods,  while  love  and  hate  fought  through  him,  her 
tired  feet,  forgetting  all  their  weariness,  would  have 
fled  along  the  way  to  him  with  incredible  swiftness. 

Brushing  her  hand  across  her  forehead  every  now 
and  again  with  a  dazed  gesture,  and  trailing  the  gay 
little  sunbonnet  indifferently  after  her  by  one  string, 
Mary  came  slowly  down  from  the  woods  and  made 
her  way  home. 

Her  mother,  dressed  in  her  clean  Sunday  print,  sat 
upon  the  porch  alone,  save  for  the  baby  in  her  lap,  the 

284 


THE  WORD  FROM  ALDERSON  CREE 

other  small  Reddins  having  scattered  to  the  four  winds 
of  heaven.  As  Mary  sank  down  upon  the  top  step  of 
the  porch  and  put  her  head  wearily  back  against  one 
of  the  roof  pillars  her  mother  gave  her  a  quick  look. 

"Where's  Dave?"  she  said. 

"He's  gone,"  Mary  answered  dully. 

"Gone?"  Mrs.  Reddin  cried.  "Aw,  Mary,  you'd 
oughten  ter  er  let  him  go  —  all  mad  like  he  is,  I'm 
mighty  'fraid  he'll  git  inter  trouble  with  Kip!" 

" Let  him  go!"  cried  the  girl  sharply;  "how  could  I 
keep  him  from  goin'  ?  I  —  I  got  down  on  my  knees 
ter  him  not  ter  go,  but  hit  didn't  do  no  good  —  how 
else  could  I  er  kep'  him?"  she  questioned. 

"Which  way'd  he  go,"  her  mother  asked  soothingly. 

"He's  gone  home  —  he's  gone  home  fer  —  "  the  girl 
faltered  and  broke  off,  her  face  growing  slowly  white. 

"Never  mind,  honey,  never  mind,"  her  mother 
cried  tenderly.  "Don't  you  take  on;  I  wouldn't  be  er 
bit  surprised  ef  Kip  wa'n't  way  outer  reach  by  now, 
an'  your  keepin'  Dave  so  long  with  you'll  giv'  him  er 
chanst  ter  git  clean  off,"  and  she  hugged  the  baby  in 
her  arms  to  show  her  sympathy  and  compassion  for 
her  older  child. 

Mary's  face  lit  up  pathetically. 

"I  did  keep  him  er  little  spell,  didn't  I?  He  did 
keep  er  way  from  Kip  er  little  while  fer  me,  didn't  he, 
Mammy?"  she  begged. 

"Er  course  he  did,  honey,  er  course,"  her  mother 
answered,  bestowing  more  eager  caresses  on  the  baby. 

"But,  oh!"  Mary  cried,  and  pressed  her  hand  to 
285 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

her  temple  —  "Oh!  Mammy,  I  ought  ter  er  kep'  him 
altergether  —  there  must  er  been  somethiri*  I  could  er 
said  to  keep  him  —  some  way  —  ef  I  could  er  jest 
thought  of  hit!  Oh!  Mammy,"  she  appealed  to  the 
older  woman,  "what  was  hit  I  oughter  er  said  ter  him  ?" 

Mrs.  Reddin's  reply  was  drowned  in  a  sudden  burst 
of  deep  baying  from  old  Turk,  the  hound,  who  had 
been  lying  to  all  appearances  fast  asleep  in  the  damp 
delicious  coolness  of  the  lengthening  grass  of  the  yard, 
but  who  now  aroused  himself  to  apparent  ferocity,  as 
he  perceived  the  approach  of  Johnny  Snyder  —  Orin 
Snyder's  fourth  boy.  Arrived  at  the  yard  gate  this 
young  gentleman  paused  discreetly. 

"Why,  howdy,  Johnny!  Come  r.'ght  in,"  Mrs. 
Reddin  called  out  hospitably. 

"I'm  'fraid  er  ther  dog,"  he  cried  back,  still  keeping 
the  gate  securely  closed. 

"Aw,  he  won't  trouble  yer.  Turk  you  behave  yerself 
now  —  go  lie  down,  sir !  There  now  —  yer  come  right 
in,  an'  ef  yer  don't  act  like  yer  scared  of  him  he  won't 
do  er  thing  ter  yer." 

"Well,  yer  keep  er  watch  on  him  then,"  Johnny  re 
plied,  opening  the  gate  with  extreme  caution,  and  ready 
to  slam  it  hastily  shut  at  any  further  demonstration 
from  the  enemy,  for  he  had  an  immense  regard  for 
the  calves  of  his  slim  ten- year-old  legs.  Coming  timor 
ously  up  the  yard  path  he  paused  at  length  at  the 
porch  steps,  flicking  at  the  long  grass  with  a  peeled 
switch  which  he  carried,  and  keeping  one  eye  still 
cocked  on  the  hound. 

286 


THE  WORD  FROM  ALDERSON  CREE 

"Ole  An't  Marthy  Lamfire's  took  mighty  sick,"  he 
said;  "an'  she  lows  she  wants  Mary  ter  come  an'  set 
up  with  her  —  Mammy  sent  me  over  ter  say  so." 

"Oh!  I  can't  go!"  Mary  cried  sharply,  passing  her 
hand  over  her  face.  "I  can't  go,  kin  I,  Mammy?" 
she  appealed. 

"Maybe  I  kin  go  in  yer  place,"  her  mother  suggested. 
"Is  she  took  much  worse  than  she  hes  been?"  she 
asked,  turning  to  Johnny. 

"She  says  she  don't  want  nobody  but  jest  Mary," 
he  answered,  still  flicking  the  grass  indifferently,  and 
still  watching  the  dog.  "Yes'm,  she's  mighty  bad  off. 
I  don't  look  fer  her  ter  git  well  er  tall  —  they  hes  ter  feed 
her  altogether  outer  a  teaspoon,  an'  yer  know  when 
folks  gits  that  bad  ther  ain't  much  show  fer  'em,"  he 
concluded,  with  the  hardened  philosophy  of  youth. 

Mary  rose  to  her  feet  with  sudden  changed  deter 
mination. 

"I'll  go,"  she  said.  "I  promised  her  I'd  go  ter  her 
ef  she  was  took  sick.  I  might  jest  es  well  go,"  she 
went  on,  answering  her  mother's  look  of  protest,  "  I  ain't 
doin'  no  good  here,  an'  I  feel  like  I  must  do  somethin'. 
An'  anyhow  I  promised  her  " ;  and  so  saying  she  slipped 
into  the  house  to  change  her  Sunday  frock. 

"Well,  ef  yer  aire  goin'  yer'd  better  hurry,"  her 
mother  called  after  her.  "Ther's  er  powerful  big 
storm  comin',  an'  I'm  mighty  'fraid  hit'll  ketch  yer 
'fore  yer  git  ter  ther  Mossy  Holler." 

Johnny  Snyder  squinted  one  knowing  eye  at  the 
heavens. 

287 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

"I  don't  look  fer  hit  ter  break  much  'fore  dark,"  he 
said  with  masculine  reassurance;  "hit's  been  ergrowlin' 
'round  jest  this  erway  fer  over  er  hour  er  more."  His 
air  was  that  patronizing  one  of  tolerance  which  a  man 
assumes  to  calm  a  woman's  nervous  fears. 

Was  it  chance,  or  was  it  in  answer  to  the  thunder, 
that  at  this  moment  of  masculine  superiority  old  Turk, 
from  his  retired  spot  in  the  grass,  should  have  opened 
one  sleepy  red  eye,  and  whispered  one  faint  growl  to 
himself?  Whichever  it  might  be  was  not  for  Johnny 
Snyder  to  pause  and  inquire,  and  a  twinkle  of  bare 
legs  saw  him  outside  the  yard  gate  in  a  flash.  From 
this  haven  he  stopped  to  explain  to  Mrs.  Reddin,  mind 
ful  of  her  earlier  advice. 

"I'll  jest  step  out  here,"  he  said  elaborately,  "fer 
fear  ef  I  stayed  in  ther  yard  I  might  do  somethin'  ter 
make  that  ole  dog  think  I  was  erf  raid  of  him." 

When  Mary  made  her  way  up  the  dark  little  path  of 
the  Mossy  Hollow  which,  seen  now  in  the  gathering 
shadows  of  evening,  and  in  the  black  threat  of  the 
storm,  was  more  than  ever  sombre  and  eerily  desolate, 
and  entered  at  length  Martha  Lamfire's  forlornly  small 
cabin,  she  found  assembled  there  some  half  dozen  of 
the  matrons  and  old  women  of  the  Draft.  They  sat 
in  an  ominous  whispering  group  about  the  bedside, 
their  faces  showing  strangely  white  and  solemn  in  the 
room's  uncertain  gloom. 

Old  Martha  was  lying  under  the  gay  patchwork 
quilt  in  a  seeming  stupor  when  Mary  entered,  but  as 
the  girl  stepped  across  the  creaking  boards  of  the 

288 


THE  WORD  FROM  ALDERSON  CREE 

floor  and  bent  over  the  bed,  she  opened  her  eyes  with 
startling  brilliance. 

All  her  days  Martha  Lamfire  had  lived  with  intense 
aliveness.  All  the  monotony  of  the  Mossy  Hollow, 
the  bare  thought  of  which  would  have  made 
many  people  shudder  with  depression,  had  never 
succeeded  in  crushing  out  the  vivacity  of  her  spirit. 
In  all  the  little  that  life  had  brought  her  she  had  been 
strongly,  keenly  alive;  in  her  love  for  Amabel,  in  her 
hate  for  Alderson  Cree;  and  now,  in  the  hour  of  her 
death,  she  was  still  the  same  indomitable  personality, 
vividly  alive,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  her  eyes,  as  they 
opened,  looked  into  Mary's  face  with  the  bright  aloof 
ness  of  delirium. 

"Ammy —  Honey!"  she  cried;  and  a  wave  of  sur 
prise  swept  over  the  watching  women,  for  there  was 
not  one  among  them  who  had  ever  heard  just  that  note 
of  broken  tenderness  in  the  old  voice.  Mary  took  the 
hard  fever-burnt  hand  in  hers  and  pressed  it  softly. 

"  Don't  yer  know  me,  An't  Marthy  ?"  she  said.  "  It's 
Mary  —  Mary  Reddin.  I  promised  yer  I'd  come  ef 
yer  sent  fer  me." 

The  old  woman  looked  at  her  a  moment  in  per 
plexity,  as  though  her  bewildered  brain  groped  for 
enlightenment  in  remote  places. 

"Mary  Reddin  —  Mary  Reddin,"  she  murmured 
turning  the  name  over;  "Mary  Reddin."  Then  sud 
denly  light  leaped  into  her  eyes,  and  cleared  them  of 
their  lost  look. 

"Mary  Reddin  —  David  Cree  —  Alderson  Cree  — 
289 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

Amabel  Lamfire,"  she  cried  quite  loudly,  and  very 
quickly,  as  though  her  strayed  senses  fled  breathlessly 
along  the  stepping-stones  of  the  names  and  came  home 
at  last  to  that  familiar  treasured  one  which  no  amount 
of  delirium  could  blot  from  her  mind.  There  she 
paused,  and  for  a  little  space  she  lay  whispering  the 
name. 

"Amabel,  Ammy,  Amabel  Lamfire,"  over  and 
over,  as  a  mother  tries  over  her  baby's  name  to  take 
the  strangeness  from  it.  But  all  at  once  the  sibilant 
tenderness  of  the  whispering  ceased,  and  she  spoke  out 
loud,  a  harsh  surprise  in  her  voice  — 

"Alderson  Cree!"  she  cried.  "O  Lord!  Alderson 
Cree!"  The  words  came  with  a  startled  rush  of  aston 
ishment.  Then  with  the  same  quickness  her  mind 
swept  her  on,  and  all  at  once  the  little  withered  figure 
which  scarcely  wrinkled  the  bed  clothes  was  shaken  by 
gust  after  gust  of  low  witch  laughter  —  laughter  which 
shook  her  all  over  yet  scarcely  altered  the  brilliant, 
strange  look  of  her  face.  Once  as  she  laughed  Mary 
wondered  as  she  caught  the  muttered  words,  "A-ha, 
Judy  Leister." 

Mary  took  both  her  hands  in  hers,  and  spoke  with 
low  insistence,  for  the  laughter  and  brilliant  face  to 
gether  were  terrible. 

"A'nt  Marthy  —  A'nt  Marthy,"  she  said  firmly; 
"Don't  yer  know  me?  I'm  Mary  Reddin  —  Mary 
Reddin,"  she  repeated.  "I've  come  ter  set  up  with 
yer  like  I  promised.  Don't  yer  know  me,  A'nt 
Marthy?" 

290 


THE  WORD  FROM  ALDERSON  CREE 

Gradually  the  old  woman's  scattered  senses  returned, 
and  looking  into  the  girl's  face  attentively  she  spoke 
slowly. 

"Mary  Reddin —  "  she  said  —  and  Mary  saw  that 
at  last  she  knew  her  —  "Mary  Reddin,  promise  me 
yer'll  stay  by  me  till  I  die;  promise  me  yer  won't  leave 
me  —  promise,"  she  cried  feverishly. 

But  Mary  drew  back  a  little,  "I  do'  know's  I  kin, 
A'nt  Marthy  —  Dave  may — "  she  faltered  and  broke 
off. 

"Girl!"  Martha  cried  with  sudden  fierce  strength; 
"ef  yer  don't  stay  by  me  yer'll  be  sorry  fer  hit  ter  yer 
dyin'  day  —  yes!  ter  yer  dyin'  day  an'  afterwards." 

Mary  shrank  away  from  the  awful  face  and  from  the 
passion  of  the  voice,  but  as  the  eyes  still  threatened  her, 
at  length  she  gave  her  promise  to  stay,  though  she  did 
it  fearfully  and  reluctantly. 

A  whisper  of  argument  and  dissent  arose  now  among 
the  women,  and  the  group  began  to  disintegrate. 

"Ef  yer'll  stay  ternight,  Mary,  Mis'  Cooper  says 
she'll  stay  with  yer  an'  watch,  an'  some  of  us'll 
be  over  soon  in  ther  mornin',"  Mrs.  Snyder  said, 
shaking  out  her  ample  figure  and  reaching  for  her 
sunbonnet. 

"Ther  doctor  said  ther  wa'n't  nothin'  we  could  do 
fer  A'nt  Marthy  an'  ther  rest  of  us  hes  ter  go  now, 
seem'  hit's  most  dark,  an'  er  powerful  big  storm  comin' 
—  an'  anyhow  I  bet  my  baby's  been  cryin'  fer  me  fer 
ther  last  hour  er  more.  I'll  take  ther  word  ter  your 
folks  that  yer  won't  be  home  ternight,"  she  went  on  to 

291 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

Mrs.  Cooper;  "an'  I'll  drop  in  myself  ther  very  first 
thing  in  ther  mornin'." 

At  the  scrape  of  their  chairs  and  the  rustle  of  their 
skirts,  old  Martha  shut  her  eyes  determinately,  and 
lay  motionless  and  indifferent,  though  more  than  one 
woman  bent  over  her  with  a  forboding  shake  of  the 
head,  and  a  whispered,  "Po'  soul,  po'  old  soul!" 
Then  with  low-spoken  "Good-bys,"  and  lingering 
glances,  they  emerged  into  the  relief  of  the  spring  air, 
and  turned  toward  their  homes  severally,  and  in  little 
groups,  gossiping  over  the  condition  of  the  old  woman, 
the  approaching  storm,  and  the  state  of  the  crops,  all 
with  equal  interest. 

Mary,  settling  herself  by  the  bedside  in  a  chair 
vacated  by  one  of  the  departed  women,  was  conscious 
of  a  keen  relief  in  their  going  away,  for  the  continued 
low  whisper  of  their  remarks  and  the  gravity  of  their 
pale  faces  had  been  nerve-racking  in  the  extreme,  and 
for  a  little  while,  in  the  silence  and  almost  entire  dark 
ness  of  the  cabin,  she  seemed  to  be  gathered  as  it  were 
into  soft  arms  and  to  slip  away  a  little  from  the  vivid 
present  of  her  own  tragedy. 

But  presently  Mrs.  Cooper,  with  a  fretful  exclama 
tion  that  "Hit  was  so  dark  yer  couldn't  see  yer  hand 
before  yer  face,"  rose,  and  groping  about  found  matches, 
and  lit  the  small  glass  hand  lamp,  which  from  its  high 
perch  on  the  mantel  shelf  sent  a  desolate  light  over 
the  room,  worse  than  actual  darkness. 

"An'  I'm  that  hungry  too,"  the  woman  complained, 
"  I'm  jest  erbliged  ter  hev  somethin'  ter  eat.  I  hadn't 

292 


THE  WORD  FROM  ALDERSON  CREE 

got  more'n  two  or  three  bites  er  dinner  when  here  come 
Allie  Snyder  sayin'  A'nt  Marthy  was  took  worse  an' 
ter  come  there.  Reckon  ther  mus'  be  some  sort  er 
cold  victuals  in  that  there  ole  press,"  she  continued  in 
her  whining  voice,  which  held  always  a  grievance 
against  the  rest  of  the  world. 

On  heavy  feet  whose  steps  jarred  the  whole  cabin 
she  crossed  over  to  an  antiquated  tin-studded  cup 
board,  and  pulling  open  the  door  with  a  fretful  jerk 
explored  within;  presently  bringing  to  light  a  plate  of 
cold  soda  biscuits  and  a  half- emptied  jar  of  peach 
butter.  Sighing,  she  let  herself  ponderously  down  into 
a  chair  by  the  bare  wooden  table,  and  began  her  meal 
-  first,  however,  holding  out  the  plate  and  jar  to  Mary 
as  an  invitation  to  partake  also.  The  girl  shook  her 
head  almost  in  disgust  and  turned  away,  fixing  her 
eyes  on  the  darkest  corner  of  the  room.  In  her  over 
wrought  and  anxious  state  the  mere  thought  of  food 
was  distasteful  to  her,  and  the  relish  with  which  the 
fat  woman  fell  to  was  sickening.  Besides,  Mary  knew, 
with  quick  intuition,  that  though  Martha  lay  with 
closed  eyes,  apparently  dropped  again  into  stupor,  she 
was  in  reality  keenly  and  resentfully  aware  of  the 
other  woman's  prying  into  her  things,  which  no  hand 
save  her  own  had  wandered  among  for  so  many  years. 

The  old  woman  lay  for  a  time  rigidly  still;  then 
gradually  her  muscles  relaxed  and  she  fell  at  length 
into  what  appeared  to  be  a  light  doze. 

Mary  sat  on  quietly  in  her  chair,  her  wide  eyes  bent 
upon  the  darkness,  and  every  nerve  following  David 

293 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

in  fearful  imagination.  By  the  table  the  fat  woman 
continued  her  noisy  meal,  running  the  blade  of  the 
wooden-handled  knife  into  the  glass  jar  in  an  eager 
quest  for  the  last  little  scrapings  of  the  peach  butter. 
The  clock  on  the  high  mantel  struck  the  hour  with  a 
vibrant  tin-pan  tone,  followed  by  a  sharp  click,  as 
though  tiny  hands  applauded  the  performance  as  each 
stroke  shimmered  away  into  silence,  and  save  for 
these  sounds  the  room  was  very  quiet,  until,  with  a 
sudden  blue  sheet  of  flame  and  crack  of  thunder  on 
top  of  it,  the  storm  broke  heavily  over  the  hollow.  At 
the  crash  Mary  jumped  in  her  chair,  and  Mrs.  Cooper 
dropped  her  knife  clatteringly  down  upon  the  emptied 
tin  plate. 

"Thunder  allers  did  make  me  jest  es  nervous  es  a 
cat";  she  said,  rising  hastily  and  going  over  to  shut  the 
door. 

Old  Martha  had  started  broad  awake  and  was 
staring  about  her  with  wild  eyes.  She  drew  herself 
feebly  towards  the  edge  of  the  bed,  and  made  an  effort 
to  set  her  feet  upon  the  floor. 

"Hit's  rainin',"  she  muttered.  "Hit's  rainin',  an' 
Ammy'll  git  wet  — I  gotter  go  fetch  her  in.  Yes, 
honey,  yes!"  she  cried;  "Mammy's  comin'!"  and 
again  she  attempted  to  get  out  of  bed.  But  Mary 
pressed  her  gently  back. 

"Lay  still,  lay  still,  A'nt  Marthy,"she  said  soothingly. 
"  Ammy's  all  right  —  you  jest  lay  still." 

For  a  moment  the  old  woman  looked  at  the  girl  in 
mysterious  question,  then  she  took  up  her  words  and 

294 


THE  WORD  FROM  ALDERSON  CREE 

turned  them  over  and  over  slowly  —  "  Ammy's  all  right, 
Ammy's  all  right  —  she's  all  right";  and  in  spite  of 
the  monotony  of  delirium  her  voice  held  in  it  a  wistful 
interrogation.  Afterwards  she  fell  into  a  long  wander 
ing  babble  of  broken  phrases  and  idle,  foolish  words, 
all  strung  together  and  interwoven  with  the  repetition 
of  the  dead  girl's  name,  which  ran  like  a  ray  of  light 
through  all  the  entanglement  of  her  bewildered  brain. 
Now  it  was  Ammy  as  a  baby,  and  she  crooned  baby 
words  to  her;  now  a  little  girl  at  her  play;  now  at  work 
in  her  garden  —  and  thus  with  her  rambling  thoughts 
the  old  woman  groped  her  way  back  through  the  dim 
past  —  or  was  it  the  past  with  her  ?  Was  it  not  instead 
all  an  intense  present?  Certainly  Mary  heard  her 
cry  out  sharply  once  —  "Yes,  honey,  yes!  Mammy's 
goin'  ter  tell  —  don't  look  that  erway!"  as  though  she 
spoke  to  someone  at  her  side. 

Outside  the  roar  of  the  wind  and  rain  and  crash  of 
thunder  made  wild  pandemonium  in  the  narrow  hollow. 
At  every  fresh  clap  Mary's  heart  leaped  within  her  in 
frightened  bounds,  though  usually  she  was  healthily 
unafraid  of  thunder-storms;  while  Mrs.  Cooper  cowered 
frankly  in  her  chair,  burying  her  head  in  her  arms  at 
each  streak  of  lightning. 

"I  allers  did  hate  er  lightnin'  storm,"  she  quavered; 
"an'  shet  erway  up  here  in  this  terrible  lonesome 
holler  with  that  old  crazy  woman  is  ernough  ter  drive 
er  person  jest  plum  distracted." 

In  truth,  caged  by  the  steep  sides  of  the  hollow  the 
force  of  the  wind  and  crash  of  thunder  were  doubled 

295 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

and  seemed  bounding  back  and  forth  in  a  wild  en 
deavour  to  escape,  and  in  their  tumultuous  fury  the 
flimsy  cabin  rocked  again. 

Distracted  with  terror  Mrs.  Cooper  began  to  pray 
out  loud,  in  long  whining  ejaculations  of  complaint 
and  terror;  Mary  also  had  to  take  fierce  hold  upon  her 
self  to  keep  from  screaming.  And  through  it  all  old 
Martha  went  on  with  broken  phrases  and  babbled 
remembrances  of  Amabel. 

Gradually,  however,  the  fury  of  the  storm  swept 
on  to  further  ravages  beyond,  leaving  behind  only  a 
gentle  steady  summer  rain. 

Mrs.  Cooper  stretched  herself  in  weary  relief.  "I 
declare  I'm  jest  clean  beat  out  with  it  all,"  she  an 
nounced.  "An'  I  b'lieve  I'll  jest  take  er  little  rest  ther 
first  part  er  ther  night,  an'  then  I'll  take  ther  watchin' 
an'  you  kin  git  er  good  sleep.  I  wisht  ter  ther  good 
ness  ther  was  any  chanct  of  my  snatchin'  er  forty  winks, 
but  I'm  that  wrought  up  hit  don't  seem  like  I  could 
sleep  ergin  fer  er  week  —  but  I'll  jest  try  ter  rest  er 
little  spell  anyhow." 

She  stretched  her  large  frame  expansively  and  tho 
roughly,  and  then  not  waiting  for  any  reply  from  Mary 
she  put  her  head  down  upon  her  arms  on  the  hard 
table,  and  fell  asleep  almost  instantly  —  a  great  lump 
of  inanimate  blue  gingham. 

Mary  shifted  her  position  stiffly  in  her  chair,  and 
settled  to  her  long  watch.  The  clock  ticked  with 
monotonous  heavy  beats,  the  fat  woman's  breath  came 
in  long  deep  snores,  and  Martha  babbled  on. 

296 


THE  WORD  FROM  ALDERSON  CREE 

At  first  Mary  was  pulsingly  awake,  and  she  felt  as 
though  at  each  breath  of  the  sleeper  her  racked  nerves 
would  give  away,  and  she  would  scream  out  that 
David  Cree  was  killing  Kip  Ryerson,  in  hysterical 
protest  to  the  indifference  of  the  world. 

But  after  a  time,  as  the  night  dragged  wearily  on, 
and  Martha's  wanderings  died  again  into  a  stupor, 
Mary,  quieted  by  the  tranquil  freshness  of  the  atmos 
phere  after  the  storm,  and  by  the  delicious  sharp  smell 
of  the  thirsty  earth,  began  to  feel  a  certain  lethargy 
and  indifference  creeping  upon  her,  which  was  not 
sleep.  Sitting  thus  in  the  little  desolate  room,  her 
thoughts  began  to  turn  away  from  David  and  to  dwell 
upon  Amabel  Lamfire  —  the  report  of  whose  extreme 
beauty  had  always  had  a  fascination  for  her. 

She  thought  of  her  living  there  her  retired  life  in  all 
her  delicate  radiance  of  youth  and  loveliness.  What 
sort  of  an  existence  could  hers  have  been,  which  in 
doors  was  bounded  by  the  drearily  dull  confines  of 
that  small  room,  so  sparsely  furnished  even  to  the 
Draft  notions;  and  which  out  of  doors  was  encom 
passed  by  the  hollow's  sombre  walls,  with  only  an 
occasional  trip  to  the  store,  and  to  the  schoolhouse 
for  preaching  and  prayer-meeting,  or  perhaps  a  few 
visits  to  a  neighbour's?  What  had  she  had  in  all  her 
life  to  make  up  for  the  monotony  of  it  ?  First  she  had 
had  her  mother's  passionate  love;  then  she  had  had 
her  extreme  beauty;  and  lastly  she  had  loved  Alder- 
son  Cree.  Of  these  three  seeming  happinesses, 
the  first  and  third,  between  them,  had  broken  her 

297 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

heart,  and  the  second  had  done  her  more  harm  than 
good. 

Mary  sighed  as  she  thought  about  it.  Amabel 
Lamfire  had  loved  Alderson  Cree  and  it  had  broken 
her  heart.  Mary  Reddin  loved  David  Cree  —  and 
was  her  heart  to  be  broken  also?  And  with  the 
thought  Mary  half  echoed  old  Martha's  bitter  cry  — 
"Oh!  them  Crees!" 

Again  turning  back  to  Amabel  she  let  her  eyes 
wander  idly  about  the  room  trying  to  fit  into  its  sur 
roundings  that  delicate  personality,  which  like  a  butter 
fly,  a  little  flower,  or  any  beautiful  fragile  thing,  had 
been  so  easily  crushed  by  the  first  blow.  And  gradu 
ally  as  she  did  so,  in  her  lethargy  of  overstrained  nerves, 
Mary  began  almost  to  think  of  herself  as  the  dead 
girl;  to  be  Amabel  Lamfire  waiting  for  Alderson  Cree 
who  never  came,  instead  of  Mary  Reddin  in  a  wrung 
anguish  of  dread  for  David.  With  this  feeling  upon 
her  she  looked  down  at  the  old  woman  on  the  bed  with 
almost  a  sense  that  she  and  not  Mrs.  Reddin  was  her 
mother. 

The  shrivelled  old  nut-cracker  face  framed  in  wisps 
of  grey  hair  lay  upon  its  pillows  very  small  and  very 
quiet  just  then.  The  eyes  were  almost  shut,  and  the 
breathless  stillness  of  the  whole  figure  brought  Mary 
with  a  startled  gasp  out  of  her  dazed  mood,  and  made 
her  bend  down  quickly,  listening  to  make  sure  that  the 
old  woman  was  still  alive.  But  even  as  she  looked 
and  in  her  doubt  was  about  to  call  Mrs.  Cooper,  old 
Martha  opened  sudden  wide  bright  eyes  upon  her. 

298 


THE  WORD  FROM  ALDERSON  CREE 

She  looked  at  Mary  for  a  moment,  and  then  her 
gaze  went  'round  the  room  until  it  fell  upon  Mrs. 
Cooper's  sleeping  figure. 

"Der  yer  want  anything,  A'nt  Marthy?"  Mary 
questioned,  speaking  in  a  somewhat  raised  voice  to 
catch  her  attention. 

A  frown  of  annoyance  drew  the  old  faint  eyebrows 
together,  and  Martha  made  a  feeble  warning  gesture. 

"Hesh,  don't  talk  so  loud,  you'll  wake  her  up,"  she 
whispered,  "an'  I  got  somethin'  ter  say  jest  ter  you." 

"Yes?  What  is  hit?"  Mary  answered,  speaking 
clearly,  but  in  a  tone  to  match  the  other's. 

Martha  stretched  out  one  feeble  clawlike  hand  and 
clutched  the  girl's  delicately  strong  one. 

"Ther  was  something  I  hed  ter  say  —  somethin'  I 
hed  ter  say  jest  ter  you,"  she  repeated  wanderingly, 
"what  was  hit  ?  Somethin'  erbout  er  hunt" ;  she  paused 
again,  pondering,  as  though  her  thoughts  went  slowly, 
feeling  their  way. 

"Yes,"  she  resumed  suddenly,  nodding  her  head, 
"ther  was  er  hunt  —  er  hunt  on  Peter's  Ridge  an'  they 
killed  Alderson  Cree  —  but  first  Alderson,  him  an' 
me  betwixt  us  —  we  killed  Ammy  —  Amabel  Lamfire." 
She  paused  as  always  over  the  name,  and  went  drifting 
away  on  that  track.  "Ammy  —  Amabel,"  she  whis 
pered.  "Der  yer  know  Ammy?"  she  questioned,  her 
eyes  searching  Mary's  face  with  bright  interrogation. 
"No!"  she  cried  with  the  same  suddenness  that  her 
mind  had  been  swept  from  one  direction  to  another 
all  night;  "no,  Ammy 's  dead  —  she's,  dead!  Alderson 

299 


THE  SOWING   OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

and  me  killed  her!  Alderson  Cree  —  Aha-a!  Alderson 
Cree,  when  you  didn't  come  ter  my  girl,  yer  didn't  know 
you'd  ever  be  begging  me  ter  take  yer  word  ter  Dave 
—  that  was  hit  —  that  was  hit!"  she  broke  off  with 
quick  illumination.  "That  was  what  I  hed  ter  tell 
yer,  hit  was  ther  word  Alderson  Cree  sent  ter  Dave." 

"Ter  Dave!"  cried  Mary.  She  had  scarcely  been 
listening  to  the  tangle  of  crazy  words,  but  the  name 
arrested  her  attention  sharply. 

"Yes,  yes,  ter  Dave,"  the  other  hurried  on,  her  mind 
clear  for  the  moment.  "I  was  comin'  erlong  ther 
path  by  ther  Maple  Spring  that  day,  an'  when  I  got 
close  to  hit,  I  says  I'll  git  me  er  drink;  but  jest  as  I 
was  erbout  ter  step  out  ter  ther  spring  I  heered  some- 
thin'  kinder  moan,  an'  I  stopped  an'  looked  an'  hit 
was  Alderson  Cree  —  shot  in  ther  back.  Alderson 
Cree  —  '  she  faltered  over  the  name,  and  paused, 
losing  the  thread  of  her  story. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  understand  —  it  was  Alderson  Cree," 
Mary  cried  feverishly.  "Yes,  A'nt  Marthy,  go  on!" 

With  an  effort  Martha  resumed.  "An'  es  I  stopped 
an'  looked  he  was  prayin'  —  prayin'! — "  she  broke 
off  into  her  distracted  laughter.  "Alderson  Cree  was 
er  prayin'!"  she  cried  with  peal  after  peal  of  crazy, 
triumphant  glee. 

"An'  then  d'rectly  he  heered  me,"  she  went  on 
presently,  as  her  laughter  spent  itself,"  he  heered  me 
an'  '  -but  there  she  paused  with  a  quick-drawn 
breath.  Her  sharp  ear  had  caught  the  sound  of  Mrs. 
Cooper  stirring  in  her  chair.  With  a  deep  yawn  and 

300 


THE  WORD  FROM  ALDERSON  CREE 

stretching  herself  the  latter  rose  and  came  leisurely 
over  to  the  bed.  Old  Martha's  mouth  closed  tight 
and  her  eyes  dropped. 

"Yes,  A'nt  Marthy,  yes!"  Mary  begged;  "Go  on 
with  ther  word  Alderson  Cree  sent."  But  the  old 
woman  lay  white  and  still  and  without  a  quiver  of  an 
eyelash,  and  looking  down  at  her,  Mrs.  Cooper  shook 
her  head. 

"Po'  soul  —  she's  mighty  nigh  gone;  she  don't  hear 
er  word  you  say,"  she  said.  "Hit's  after  one,"  she 
went  on.  "I  managed  ter  git  er  little  drowse  after  all, 
an'  now  I  kin  take  ther  rest  er  ther  watchin'  an'  you 
kin  sleep." 

Mary  shook  her  head.  "I  don't  want  ter  rest,"  she 
said;  "besides  I'm  most  sure  A'nt  Marthy  was  tryin' 
ter  tell  me  somethin'." 

"Well,  she  may  have  been  —  but  she'll  not  tell 
nothin'  ter  nobody  now,"  the  other  returned,  looking 
again  at  the  still  face.  "An'  yer'd  better  git  some  rest 
fer  yer  looks  white  es  er  sheet." 

Mary  looked  again  hesitatingly  at  Martha,  and  truly 
she  seemed  to  have  lost  all  consciousness  of  her  sur 
roundings,  and  of  what  she  had  tried  to  say,  and  be 
lieving  that  the  other  woman  must  be  right,  the  girl 
rose  at  length  from  her  own  chair  with  a  weary  sigh, 
and  crossed  over  to  the  vacant  one  by  the  table. 

Though  it  had  seemed  impossible  for  her  to  sleep, 
yet  after  she  had  put  her  head  down  upon  the  table, 
pillowed  on  her  arms,  she  had  not  sat  thus  very  long, 
listening  to  the  rain  without,  before  she  was  in  a  troubled 

301 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

tormented  sleep,  in  which  all  the  anguish  of  the  day 
released  by  slumber  whirled  through  her  brain  in 
fantastic  and  horrifying  dreams,  startling  her  time  and 
again  confusedly  awake.  At  length,  however,  she  fell 
into  a  deep  exhausted  sleep  in  which  dreams  and  all 
consciousness  vanished  away. 

In  the  first  dim  streaks  of  dawn  she  was  awakened 
by  Mrs.  Cooper  shaking  her  by  the  shoulder.  Mary 
started  up  quickly,  confused  by  sleep  and  by  her  un 
accustomed  surroundings,  and  with  a  feeling  that  a 
cold  weight  of  unhappiness  was  waiting  to  settle  back 
upon  her  as  soon  as  she  came  fully  to  herself. 

"I  got  ter  go  now,"  Mrs.  Cooper  said  standing  over 
her.  "I  got  ter  git  home  an'  see  ter  breakfast  —  Dan 
hes  ter  hev  hit  powerful  soon,  now  that  he's  working 
up  at  Whitcomb's  camp.  But  I'll  go  by  ther  Snyders 
an'  send  some  er  them  right  up,  so's  hit'll  only  be  er 
little  bit  you'll  be  here  by  yerself." 

"But — but  I  can't  stay  here  all  alone!"  Mary  cried, 
stumbling  to  her  feet.  In  the  grey  light  of  the  rainy 
dawn,  the  cabin  looked  incredibly  dreary  and  deserted, 
while  outside  the  high  wind  left  by  the  storm  tore  up 
the  valley  in  moaning  gusts. 

"I'll  send  ther  Snyder  folks  right  up,"  Mrs.  Cooper 
urged;  "an'  I  got  ter  go.  She's  still  in  er  stupor  an' 
ther  ain't  nothin'  I  kin  do."  Mary  looked  about  the 
desolate  room  in  shaken  dread,  and  it  seemed  impos 
sible  that  she  should  stay  there  all  alone  with  the  dying 
woman.  But  as  her  gaze  went  past  Mrs.  Cooper's 
fat  shoulder  it  fell  upon  Martha  and  she  saw  that  she 

302 


THE  WORD  FROM  ALDERSON  CREE 

was  awake  and  conscious.  It  seemed  to  Mary  that 
the  old  face  held  in  it  an  eager  appeal,  and  remember 
ing  all  at  once  that  she  had  seemed  about  to  tell  her 
something  in  the  night,  which  Mrs.  Cooper's  awaken 
ing  had  put  a  stop  to,  Mary  took  a  sudden  resolve  to 
stay. 

"All  right  I'll  — I'll  stay,"  she  said.  "Only  tell 
ther  Snyder  folks  ter  hurry." 

"I'll  tell  'em,  an'  they'll  be  right  up,  I  know,"  the 
other  returned,  much  relieved  that  she  should  be  able 
to  get  away. 

She  went  over  to  the  door  and  looked  out,  pausing 
dubiously  over  the  weather.  <.. 

"Hit's  rainin'  mighty  hard  still,"  she  said;  "an'  I 
reckon  I'd  better  jest  take  that  ole  umbrel  er  settin' 
over  there  in  ther  corner  —  I'll  send  hit  right  back  by 
Allie  Snyder." 

So  saying  she  crossed  over  to  the  corner,  and  taking 
the  umbrella  bestowed  one  more  ominous  look  and 
shake  of  the  head  upon  Martha;  and  gathering  up  her 
gingham  skirts  about  her  enormous  ankles,  she  raised 
the  umbrella  and  waded  heavily  through  the  grass  of 
the  dooryard,  and  went  away  in  the  damp  chill  dawn. 

Martha  watched  her  go  with  resentment  in  her  eyes, 
and  a  half-formed  gesture  of  her  hand  as  though  to 
shake  her  fist  at  her,  but  she  changed  her  mind  quickly, 
and  instead  beckoned  to  Mary. 

"Raise  me  up  a  bit,"  she  panted.  "How  der  yer 
reckon  I  kin  breathe  layin'  in  er  holler  like  this?"  she 
added  fretfully. 

303 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

Mary  raised  her  almost  to  a  sitting  posture,  and 
propped  her  against  the  pillows.  Her  breathing  was 
very  hard  now,  and  the  light  faint  in  her  eyes,  and 
Mary,  who  had  watched  by  more  than  one  death-bed, 
knew  that  she  was  almost  gone.  But  her  mind  was 
clearer  than  it  had  been  all  night. 

"I  got  ter  tell  yer  —  I  got  ter,"  she  gasped,  "Lean 
down  close  —  listen  good,"  she  continued  as  the  girl 
bent  over  her.  The  voice  was  almost  a  whisper  and 
Mary  had  to  lean  close  to  catch  it.  "Ther  word 
Alderson  Cree  sent  ter  Dave  was  not  ter  kill  Kip  Ryer- 
son  —  not  ter  kill  him,  do  yer  understan'?" 

"What!11  cried  Mary,  springing  erect  and  staring 
down  at  her.  "What  der  yer  mean?" 

"Yes,  yes!"  the  other  gasped,  nodding  her  old  head. 
"I  come  erlong  jest  after  Dave  went  ter  git  help,  an' 
Alderson  was  er  layin'  on  his  side  with  er  great  soak 
er  blood  on  his  back  —  an'  he  was  er  prayin'  — "  she 
paused,  struggling  for  breath;  "he  was  er  prayin'  ter 
live  jest  till  Dave  come,  so's  he  could  make  him  take 
back  his  promise." 

"Oh I "  cried  Mary,  and  clasped  her  hands  hard. 

"An'  then  he  heered  me  in  ther  bresh,"  the  other 
stumbled  on;  "an'  he  jest  begged  an'  prayed  me  ter 
come  ter  him  —  but  I  wouldn't  —  an'  then  he  cussed 
me  cause  I  never  let  on  I  heered,  an'  when  I  run  he 
heered  me,  an'  hollered  after  me  he'd  be  er  settin'  on 
the  door-step  er  Hell  er  waitin'  fer  me  when  I  come,  ef 
I  didn't  tell  Dave.  But  I  didn't  tell  —  I  didn't  tell," 
she  cried  shrilly.  "An'  I  ain't  erf  raid  er  you  neither, 

3°4 


THE  WORD  FROM  ALDERSON  CREE 

Alderson  Cree!  You  kin  set  ther  till  Jedgement  Day 
fer  all  I  keer,"  she  screamed. 

For  a  moment  she  lay  still  again,  panting. 

"I  knowed  Kip  first  of  all  when  he  come  back,"  she 
went  on  again  in  a  moment,  fighting  for  the  words. 
"I  knowed  him  an'  that  was  what  I  meant  erbout  ther 
shadder  follerin'  Dave  —  but  I  wouldn't  er  told  — " 
she  paused  suddenly  looking  hard  at  Mary  with  dim 
strange  eyes.  "Der  yer  reckon  I'm  erfraid  er  Alder- 
son  Cree?"  she  demanded.  "I  ain't  —  I  ain't  erfraid 
er  any  livin'  soul  that  ever  walked,  Crees  er  not,"  she 
went  on  fiercely.  "But  I'm  er  tellin'  you  cause  every 
night  Ammy  comes  an'  looks  at  me  with  her  little  piti 
ful  face  an'  says  jest  like  she  used  ter — 'You  an'  me's 
best  friends,  ain't  we,  Mammy?'  An'  then  she  says, 
'  O  Mammy,  ain't  yer  done  ernough  harm  —  ain't  yer 
satisfied  yit?'" 

She  broke  off  abruptly  and  there  was  a  gurgle  in  her 
throat.  "Yes,  honey,  yes!"  she  panted,  "Mammy's 
told  —  she's  told  now." 

For  a  moment  again  she  was  still,  and  then  all  at 
once  she  shot  up  suddenly  to  her  knees  in  the  bed. 
"Aha-a,  Alderson  Cree!"  she  cried,  doubling  her  hard 
fists,  and  shaking  her  bony  arms  straight  and  stiff  over 
her  head.  "Keep  er  settin'  ther  —  keep  er  watchin', 
you'll  never  git  me,"  she  screamed  with  a  broken  laugh; 
"Ammy  an'  me's  goin'  —  Ammy!"  she  cried  and  fell 
back  a  dead  crumpled  heap  among  the  pillows. 

Mary  bent  over  her  quickly,  feeling  for  her  heart, 
and  knew  that  she  was  dead. 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

Mechanically  she  straightened  the  shrivelled  limbs 
upon  the  bed,  and  folded  the  hands  upon  the  breast. 
Then  she  sprang  up  and  fled  eagerly  out  of  the  cabin, 
"I  got  ter  tell  Dave  —  I  got  ter!"  she  cried  to  herself . 
"Oh!  maybe  I'll  be  in  time  yit!" 

But  at  the  yard  fence  she  paused  in  horror  —  How 
could  she  leave  the  lonesome  dead  body  unattended 
in  that  deserted  place? 

Wildly  she  looked  down  the  path  of  the  hollow  and 
screamed  again  and  again  at  the  top  of  her  voice,  but 
there  was  no  answer  —  only  the  echo  from  the  en 
circling  mountains.  She  wrung  her  hands  frantically 
together  and  burst  into  dry  sobs. 

"O  Lord,  send  somebody  quick,"  she  wept.  "Send 
somebody  quick  —  for  I've  got  ter  go ! " 

She  ran  distractedly  back  to  the  cabin  and  entered 
again  its  one  little  room,  though  now  for  a  moment 
she  hesitated  upon  the  threshold  in  hysterical  terror 
at  being  alone  with  what  the  room  held. 

Though  she  had  left  it  but  a  second  before  the  house 
seemed  changed  and  sacred  now,  and  the  figure  upon 
the  bed,  which  such  a  short  time  ago  had  been  just  a 
poor  half-crazy  old  woman,  in  the  quickness  of  an  eye 
flash  had  taken  on  all  the  reverent  mystery  and  dis 
tinction  of  death. 

Wringing  her  hands  and  calling  on  God  to  send 
someone  quickly,  Mary  paced  up  and  down  the  room, 
occasionally  rushing  to  the  fence  to  call  desperately 
down  the  hollow,  only  to  start  the  echoes  once  more, 
and  to  return  at  last  to  watch  in  the  sombre  room, 

306 


THE   WORD   FROM  ALDERSON   CREE 

It  seemed  hours  to  the  distracted  girl  that  she  waited 
alone  in  the  little  remote  hollow  with  only  the  dead 
woman  keeping  her  company,  and  with  the  message 
for  David  crying  out  to  be  told;  it  was  in  reality  only 
a  short  time  before  she  caught  sight  of  Mrs.  Snyder, 
and  her  sister-in-law,  Jane  McCurdy,  approaching 
along  the  path. 

With  a  cry  Mary  rushed  out  of  the  house  to  meet 
them. 

"She's  dead!"  she  screamed.  "She's  dead  —  an' 
I  was  all  erlone  —  an'  I  got  ter  tell  Dave  —  I  got  ter  go 
before  hit's  too  late!"  and  without  pausing  she  fled 
wildly  by  them  and  disappeared  down  the  hollow,  her 
hair  blown  about  her  face,  and  her  light  skirts  soaked 
by  the  steady  drizzle  of  the  morning,  and  whipped 
about  her  by  the  high  wind. 

The  two  women  looked  after  her  in  surprise. 

"Po'  little  thing!  she's  skeered  most  ter  death," 
they  said.  "Ann  Cooper  certainly  ought  ter  er  had 
better  sense  than  ter  er  left  her  all  erlone  that  erway." 

And  then  turning  they  went  on  to  their  duty  in  the 
cabin  —  their  duty,  with  the  completion  of  which  the 
history  of  the  Lamfires  of  the  Mossy  Run  Hollow  fell 
shut,  like  the  closing  of  a  book. 


3°7 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  VICTOR 

AT  an  early  hour,  which  was  no  longer  true  night  yet 
was  scarcely  dawn,  for  only  the  faintest  grey  tinge  of 
light  struck  across  the  darkness,  George  Hedrick,  in 
the  little  attic  room  over  his  store,  was  awakened  from 
the  first  sound  sleep  which  the  raging  of  the  storm  and 
the  wind  had  permitted  him  all  night,  by  a  sudden 
agonized  pounding  on  his  outside  door.  He  started 
broad  awake,  and  again  the  sound  came.  Springing 
from  his  bed,  and  crying  out  "All  right!"  he  dragged 
on  a  few  clothes  hastily,  and  lighting  his  lamp  de 
scended  to  the  store. 

The  pounding  was  wildly  continuous  now,  as  though 
someone  were  beside  himself  for  admission. 

"Yes!  yes!  I'm  er  comin',''  he  cried  fitting  the  key 
to  the  lock  and  flinging  open  the  door.  At  its  opening 
the  figure  of  a  woman  scudded  in  and  stopped  in  the 
middle  of  the  room. 

It  was  Judith  Cree,  and  as  she  stood  in  the  dim  lamp 
light  she  faced  Hedrick  with  horror  in  her  eyes,  one 
hand  gripping  the  edge  of  the  counter  hard. 

"George,"  she  cried,  "O  George!"  and  could  get 
no  further. 

308 


THE  VICTOR 

Hedrick's  hand  trembled  and  he  set  the  lamp  down 
quickly. 

"Has  Dave  done  hit?"  he  said. 

"I  don't  know,  I  don't  know  —  an'  I'm  most  crazy," 
she  answered  in  a  low  stunned  voice. 

She  stood  motionless,  her  hand  hard  against  the 
counter,  her  dress  wet  and  dishevelled,  her  faded  hair 
slipping  down  upon  her  shoulders,  and  her  terrified 
wild  eyes  fixed  upon  the  storekeeper. 

"O  George!"  she  cried  again  in  the  same  appalled 
tone.  "I  sent  him  ter  do  hit.  He  come  home  an'  — 
an'  he  didn't  seem  like  he  was  goin'  ter,  an'  I  stirred 
him  up  all  I  knowed  how,  an'  he  went  inter  ther  house 
an'  got  his  pistol,  an'  went  off  jest  es  ther  storm  was 
comin'  up.  I  sent  him,  George — I  made  him  go!  I 
don't  know  what  devil's  been  in  me  —  but  hit  seems 
jest  like  I'd  been  dead  so's  I  couldn't  feel  nothin'  fer 
ten  years,  an'  yesterday  I  jest  come  erlive  all  at  onct, 
an'  I  didn't  think  ther  was  anythin'  I  keered  fer  'cept 
ter  hev  Kip  Ryerson  paid  off,  till  I  seed  Dave  goin' 
erway  inter  ther  dark."  Her  voice  fell  away  into 
silence  but  still  her  eyes  held  the  man. 

"I  seed  him  go,"  she  went  on  again,  a  blind  dismay 
in  her  face.  "I  seed  him  go,  an'  at  first  I  was  glad, 
but  then  I  got  ter  studyin'  on  ther  way  he  looked  when 
he  went  off,  an'  I  been  er  seem'  his  face  that  erway  all 
night,  an'  thinkin'  how  he  was  when  he  was  er  little 
feller  —  an'  then  seein'  him  over  an'  over  ergin,  goin' 
erway  down  ther  hill  in  ther  dark,  an'  knowin'  all  ther 
time  that  hit  was  me  made  him  go  —  me,  his  own 

309 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

mother!  Oh!  I  don't  know  what's  been  ther  matter 
with  me,  George,  but  hit  don't  seem  like  hit  could 
er  been  me  that  keered  more  fer  my  hate  than  I  did  fer 
my  chile!" 

She  put  her  shaking  hands  up  to  her  face,  but  she 
did  not  weep,  and  her  tearless  dismayed  eyes  still  looked 
over  her  fingers  into  the  storekeeper's  face  with  a  wide 
and  frightened  gaze. 

"O  George,"  she  cried,  "won't  yer  please,  please  ter 
find  him  an'  make  him  come  back  —  I'd  go  myself 
but  I  know  I  couldn't  do  nothin'  with  him  now  —  not 
after  what  I  said  —  an'  I  do  b'lieve  he'd  do  more  fer 
you  than  fer  any  other  man  in  ther  Draft.  O  God!" 
she  cried,  her  voice  falling  to  a  whisper,  "I  been  er 
terrible  wicked  woman!"  She  paused  a  moment  and 
then  rushed  on  again;  "tell  him  I'd  cut  my  tongue  out 
to  take  back  ther  words  I  said  ter  him.  Oh!  ask  him 
ef  he  minds  what  I  was  'fore  Alderson  Cree  was  kilt 
-tell  him  that's  what  I  am  now,  an'  not  ther  dead 
devil  I've  been  all  these  years." 

"Which  way  did  Dave  go?"  the  storekeeper  broke 
in  quietly,  shaking  himself  into  his  coat  the  while, 
and  extinguishing  the  lamp. 

"O  George,  yer  er  good  man!"  she  cried  fervently. 
"I  don't  know  which  erway  Dave  went,  but  he  must 
er  gone  first  up  ter  Whitcomb's." 

"Well, then  I'll  go  up  there  right  off,"  Hedricksaid, 
stepping  beside  her  out  into  the  morning  freshness 
and  damp,  and  locking  the  door  after  him. 

They  swung  into  the  road  together,  and  all  the  way 
310 


THE  VICTOR 

to  the  Cree  farm  Judith  kept  up  a  wild  stream  of 
talk.  The  woman  who  for  those  ten  long  years  had 
carried  herself  so  silently  and  so  frozen  was  almost 
passionately  eager  to  talk  now.  The  sluice-gates  of 
her  reserve  were  opened,  and  scarcely  seeming  aware 
of  what  she  was  saying  she  poured  out  all  her  heart 
to  the  storekeeper.  She  seemed  strangely  and  curiously 
alive  too,  as  though  she  had  but  just  found  herself,  and 
as  though  her  own  personality  was  a  wonder  and  a 
surprise  to  her.  Over  and  over  she  recited  her  inter 
view  with  David,  breaking  out  upon  herself  with 
wild  remorse.  Then  her  mind  went  back  into  the 
past,  and  she  told  Hedrick  all  the  little  details  of  Alder- 
son's  murder,  and  of  their  difficult  struggle  in  the  years 
afterwards,  as  though  the  storekeeper  had  never  heard 
of  them  —  and  all  the  time  her  manner  wras  that  of  a 
person  who  had  been  away  from  the  Draft  a  long  time, 
and  coming  back  had  many  things  to  tell. 

They  came  at  last  to  the  Cree  place,  and  there,  as 
Judith  turned  in  at  the  gate,  she  cried  once  more, 
"Make  him  come  back,  George — oh!  make  him 
come  back  fer  God's  sake!" 

"I'll  do  ther  best  I  kin  fer  yer,  Judy,"  he  answered, 
and  went  away  up  the  road,  between  the  fence  rows 
still  cold  and  dim  in  the  wet  greyness  of  the  morning. 

When  Judith  reached  her  own  door-step,  it  seemed 
to  her  that  she  could  not  enter  the  house  and  take  up 
the  common  tasks  of  the  morning  in  her  feverish  state 
and  while  so  much  that  was  awful  was  happening  in 
her  world ;  therefore,  though  she  was  chilled  and  soaked 

3" 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

to  the  skin  by  the  rain,  she  sat  down  upon  the  porch 
step  and  strained  her  eyes  in  anxious  looking  up  the 
Draft,  if  perhaps  she  might  see  David  come  suddenly 
round  the  turn. 

As  she  sat  there  the  figure  of  Mary  Reddin  came  all 
at  once  flying  out  of  the  rain  and  mist  of  the  morning 
and  almost  ran  into  her  arms. 

"Where's  Dave  —  where's  Dave?"  Mary  cried,  lay 
ing  trembling  hands  upon  Judith,  and  almost  shaking 
her.  "Oh!  where  is  Dave  —  I  got  er  message  for 
him!" 

"I  don't  know,"  Judith  panted.  "God  knows  I 
wished  I  did.  I  reckon  he  must  er  gone  ter  Whit- 
comb's  camp  —  he  come  home  yesterday  evening  an' 
I  mocked  him  cause  he  hadn't  killed  Kip,  an'  then  he 
went  erway  an'  I  ain't  seen  him  since  —  but  he  must 
er  gone  ter  ther  camp." 

"  You  sent  him  —  you  mocked  him?"  Mary  cried. 

Judith  nodded.     "I  did,  God  fergive  me,"  she  said. 

"Then  yer  er  wicked,  wicked  old  woman,  an'  God'll 
not  fergive  you!"  cried  the  girl  vehemently, and  with  a 
passionate  gesture  she  flung  herself  away  and  sped  off 
down  the  hill  in  the  rain. 

George  Hedrick  walked  along  the  road  heavy  with 
mud,  blown  through  and  through  by  the  high  wind  of 
the  morning,  which  amounted  to  almost  a  gale,  and 
beaten  upon  by  the  steady  rain,  and  his  frame  of  mind 
was  scarcely  a  cheerful  one. 

"Go?"  he  muttered  in  scorn  of  himself.  "Er 
course  I'll  go.  I  never  yit  seed  er  mess  er  any  kind 

312 


THE  VICTOR 

come  erlong  that  wa'n't  my  business  in  no  ways  what 
ever  that  I  didn't  manage  ter  run  my  head  inter  hit, 
some  how  er  another.  Now  jest  look  at  this  —  here 
I've  knowed  Crees  all  my  life  an'  I  know  'em  ter  be 
jest  ther  very  worst  kind  er  people  ter  fool  with  when 
they're  stirred  up,  an'  yit  here  I  go  er  trompin'  erlong 
this  blamed  muddy  road  er  lookin'  fer  Dave  Cree,  who 
as  fer  temper,  is  er  Cree  right  through  ter  ther  back 
bone  an'  out  ther  other  side.  An'  anyhow  I'd  jest 
like  ter  know  what  kinder  good  my  sayin'  '  Come  home 
with  me,  Dave,  yer  Mammy's  frettin'  erbout  yer,'  's 
goin'  ter  do  —  me  erbout  comin'  up  ter  his  shoulder 
an'  no  mo'." 

Here  a  fierce  gust  of  wind  cut  through  him  and  he 
shivered  again  in  the  early  chill. 

"An'  ef  Dave  don't  take  my  head  an'  jest  natu'ally 
crack  hit  erginst  Kip's  fer  interferin'  with  his  business, 
an'  settle  us  both  at  one  clip,  I'll  certainly  git  my 
death  er  cold  in  this  yere  storm  an'  wind,"  he  com 
plained.  "An'  me  not  had  off  my  winter  flannels 
mor'n  er  week.  But  I  allers  did  think  ther  wa'n't  er 
truer  sayin'  than  that  erbout  ther  Lord  sendin'  er 
tempest  er  wind  ter  ther  shorn  lamb." 

But  for  all  his  grumbling  George  Hedrick  got  him 
self  over  the  ground  very  quickly,  and  his  face  was 
grave  and  anxious.  And  once  or  twice  as  his  mind 
went  back  to  Judith  Cree's  wild  remorseful  face,  and 
remembered  the  torrent  of  her  words  revealing  all  the 
passionate  hate  and  suffering  of  her  silent  years,  which 
now  in  the  telling  seemed  to  come  out  of  her  with  the 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

tearing  fury  of  the  devils  of  old,  he  muttered  with 
deep  conviction  —  "Hit's  er  terruble  thing  ter  be  er 
woman!" 

A  mile  or  so  behind  him  up  that  same  rough  track, 
on  frantic  eager  feet,  Mary  Reddin  was  labouring 
breathlessly  —  though  the  distance  now,  coupled  as 
it  was  with  her  headlong  flight  from  the  Mossy 
Hollow,  already  began  to  seem  very  long  and  very 
difficult. 

So  it  happened  that  when  David  Cree  awoke  that 
morning  in  the  deserted  shanty,  and  realizing  where  he 
was  and  for  what  purpose  he  was  there  rose  quickly 
and  prepared  to  take  up  his  quest,  he  came,  as  he 
stepped  across  the  rotting  doorsill,  face  to  face  with 
the  storekeeper,  who  having  been  to  Whitcomb's  camp 
in  his  search  for  him  was  then  on  his  way  to  the  Daws 
to  make  further  inquiries. 

Hedrick  drew  a  breath  of  relief  when  he  saw  David 
and  came  to  a  stand. 

"I  was  lookin'  fer  yer,  Dave,"  he  said. 

"Was  yer?"  David  replied  coolly  and  indifferently, 
preparing  to  pass  him.  "I'm  erlookin'  for  somebody 
else." 

Hedrick  put  out  his  hand  hastily  and  laid  it  on  his 
arm.  "Hole  on,  Dave — hole  on,"  he  cried  desperately, 
"  I  got  er  message  fer  yer  from  yer  mother." 

"Then  yer  kin  tell  her  from  me,"  David  answered 
quickly,  "that  hit  ain't  done  yit  —  but  that  hit  will  be 
—  she  needn't  ter  fret";  and  again  he  tried  to  move  on. 
But  Hedrick's  grasp  tightened. 


THE  VICTOR 

"Wait,  Dave,  wait!"  he  cried.  "Hit  ain't  that  - 
she  don't  want  yer  ter  do  hit.  She's  pretty  nigh  crazy 
over  what  she  said  ter  yer.  She  come  ter  me  this 
mornin'  most  'fore  day,  an'  asked  me  ter  find  yer,  an' 
say  she'd  jest  giv'  anythin'  —  she'd  cut  her  tongue  out 
—  ter  take  back  what  she  said  ter  yer." 

"Then  she  says  hit  too  late,"  David  returned  coldly 
and  grimly. 

"She  said,"  the  other  rushed  on,  "ter  ask  yer  ef  yer 
recollected  what  she  was  like  'fore  Alderson  was  kilt 
—  she  says  that's  ther  way  she  is  now,  an'  not  ther  dead 
devil  she's  been  all  these  years  since." 

David  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  recollect  how  she 
was,"  he  returned  indifferently.  "I  don't  seem  ter 
recollect  nothin'  before  that  —  But  I  tell  you,  George, 
ther's  one  thing  I  do  recollect,  an'  that's  ther  promise 
I  made  ter  my  father  —  an'  jest  now  I'm  ertendin'  ter 
that  —  an'  nothin''  else,"  and  the  man's  mouth  set  it 
self  into  a  straight  inflexible  line. 

"Then,  Dave,"  said  Hedrick  solemnly,  "I  hate  ter 
do  hit,  but  I  swear  ef  yer  go  on  after  Kip  Ryerson,  I'm 
ergoin'  down  ter  Linden  jest  as  straight  es  ever  I  knowr 
how,  an'  notify  ther  Sheriff;  I  hate  ter  do  hit,  Dave  — 
I  certainly  do,  but  I  will  jest  es  sure  es  I'm  er  livin' 
man,  I  will." 

"D — n  yer  Sheriff  an'  d — n  you  too!"  David  broke 
out  furiously.  "Yer  kin  notify  ther  whole  world  fer 
all  I  keer  —  yer  won't  none  er  yer  ketch  me  —  not  till 
I've  done  what  I  intend  doin'  an'  maybe  yer  won't 
then!" 

3*5 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

"Dave,"  said  Hedrick  gently,  changing  his  tone, 
"I  keer  er  whole  heap  fer  you,  an'  I  jest  hate  ter  see 
you  ruinin'  yerself  body  an'  soul  this  erway  jest  fer  er 
ole  promise,  an'  I  don't  b'lieve  fer  one  minute  ef  Alder- 
son  hed  er  hed  time  ter  think  twict  that  he'd  ever  er 
laid  hit  on  yer — he  wa'n't  that  kind  of  er  feller.  Think 
what  yer  er  doin',  Dave.  Think,  think,  boy,"  he 
pleaded.  "Der  yer  reckon  fer  er  second  that  yer  er 
doin'  what's  right?  That  yer  got  any  kind  of  er 
right  ter  ruin  yer  own  soul,  an'  send  ernother  inter  ther 
presence  of  God,  'fore  He's  sent  fer  him?" 

"An'  how  der  yer  know  God  didn't  send  me  fer 
him?"  David  demanded. 

"God'll  send  fer  him  when  He's  ready,  but  He'll 
not  send  by  you,  an'  yer  know  hit,"  the  storekeeper 
returned,  "an'  yer  know  hit,"  he  repeated.  "I've 
watched  yer  scuffle  erlong  ever  since  Alderson  was  kilt 
an'  I  know  ther  stuff  an'  ther  spunk  that's  in  yer — oh, 
my  boy,  don't  go  an'  ruin  yerself  now,"  he  implored. 
"jest  es  yer  gittin'  somewheres." 

"Where's  Dave — where 's  Dave  CreeV  A  girl 
with  drawn  face  and  sobbing  breath — a  drenched  and 
haggard  wraith  of  the  storm  —  was  demanding  fran 
tically  at  the  kitchen  door  0}  Whitcomb's  lumber  camp. 

The  cook  —  the  first  to  be  up  in  the  camp,  and 
scarcely  yet  awake — looked  at  her  curiously  and  half 
startled.  "Lord,  how'm  I  ter  know?"  he  said.  "He 
come  here  last  night  but  he  went  erway  ergin  almost 
d'rectly." 

316 


THE  VICTOR 

"  He  went  erway  ergin?"  the  girl  repeated,  pressing 
her  hand  against  her  heaving  breast. 

The  man  nodded.  "Yes,  jest  es  ther  storm  broke," 
he  said. 

"  Jest  es  ther  storm  broke,"  the  girl  repeated  in  a 
dazed  voice,  and  turning  stumbled  away  out  of  the 
yard. 

"  David  Cree,"  the  storekeeper  went  on  sternly,  lay 
ing  closer  hands  upon  him.  "Look  at  me  an'  tell  me 
yer  b'lieve  yer  doin'  what's  right.  Look  at  me,  boy  — 
he  pleaded.  "Look  at  me  like  yer  would  have  done  ef 
I  was  yer  father,  an'  tell  me  yer  b'lieve  in  yer  soul  yer 
doin'  right." 

David  drew  himself  away  with  a  bewildered  look, 
and  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead. 

"George,"  he  said,  "I  don't  know  what's  right  an' 
what's  wrong  no  more.  Hit's  God's  truth  I  don't,  I'm 
tore  first  one  way  an'  then  tother,  an'  which  is  right  I 
jest  don't  know.  I  only  know  one  thing  fer  certain, 
an'  that  is  that  I  give  my  promise  ter  settle  with  that 
snake,  an'  hit  seems  like  I've  got  ter  do  hit,  whether 
hit's  God's  work  or  ther  devil's  —  an'  afterwards  they 
kin  settle  betwixt  'em  which  one  I  belong  ter. 

"Yer  er  good  little  feller,  George,"  he  went 
on,  laying  his  hand  on  the  other's  shoulder;  "an' 
I'm  much  erbliged  ter  yer.  But  I  promised  —  I 
promised!  An'  I  promised  hit  harder  than  I  ever 
did  anything  in  all  my  life.  An'  I  can't  fergit  hit, 
George,  I  can't." 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

"Then  God  have  mercy  on  yer,  Dave!"  Hedrick 
said  simply. 

And  after  a  short  instant  David  stepped  by  him  and 
started  resolutely  along  the  road  to  the  river. 

In  the  water-soaked  woods  of  the  early  dawn  of  that 
May  morning,  Hedrick  stood  still  in  the  road,  knowing 
his  defeat  and  watching  David's  stern  figure  go  steadily 
on  its  way. 

The  heavy  drizzle  of  rain  continued,  and  added  to  it, 
in  high  sudden  gusts,  the  wind  flung  down  the  collected 
moisture  from  the  green  leaves,  though  in  truth  they 
were  hardly  as  yet  big  enough  to  hold  a  full  drop  of 
rain. 

In  the  depressing  cold  light  Hedrick's  face  looked 
old  and  worn,  and  unusually  grave,  and  as  he  watched 
David  he  took  in  his  breath  with  a  sharp  click  of  regret 
and  compassion. 

But  in  that  moment  a  sudden  broken  and  exhausted 
little  voice  cut  the  forlorn  stillness  of  the  woods,  flinging 
itself  past  Hedrick  and  leaping  on  after  David's  de 
parting  figure  with  breathless  entreaty. 

"Dave,  Dave!    O  Dave,  wait!"  it  cried  desperately. 

The  voice  was  spent,  and  not  very  loud,  and  the 
storekeeper  scarcely  made  out  the  words,  but  David, 
though  he  was  some  distance  further  away,  heard  the 
first  faint  cry  and  turned  like  a  flash,  and  storm-tossed, 
drenched  with  rain,  and  utterly  weary,  Mary  Reddin 
stumbled  past  Hedrick  and  up  the  mountain  to  David. 

"Dave,"  she  cried  with  sobbing  breath;  and  flung 
herself  upon  him,  clinging  to  him,  and  twining  her 


THE  VICTOR 

arms  about  his  neck  as  though  she  would  never  let  him 

go- 
But  after  that  first  quick  turn,  David  had  stood  still 
in  the  road,  not  going  to  meet  her;  and  when  she  clung 
to  him,  after  the  one  instant  when  his  arms  had  closed 
upon  her  spasmodically,  he  put  up  his  hands  and  tried 
to  unclasp  her  fingers  from  about  his  neck,  his  face 
resolute  but  very  white. 

"Let  me  go,  honey,"  he  said  gently  —  "yer  must 
let  me  go." 

But  with  all  the  strength  that  was  left  in  her  she 
clung  to  him  closer  and  more  vehemently,  and  all  the 
time,  between  her  difficult  poignant  breath,  she  kept 
crying  his  name  beseechingly  —  "Dave,  Dave!"  over 
and  over  as  though  it  was  all  she  had  voice  for. 

Her  heart  beat  as  though  it  would  leap  into  her 
throat,  a  mist  was  before  her  eyes;  her  ears  roared, 
and  in  her  mouth  was  the  sharp  taste  of  blood.  For 
her  frantic  anguished  search  for  David  had  strained 
her  powers  to  their  very  utmost,  and  only  the  spur  of 
the  message  she  had  to  deliver  could  ever  have  carried 
her  in  such  haste  over  the  long  difficult  miles.  She 
felt  as  though  black  waters  were  rushing  upon  her, 
and  that  only  the  need  of  the  message  kept  her  from 
sinking  away  to  be  entirely  drowned  in  them;  and  at 
last  even  that  need  vanished  in  the  surge  and  roar  of 
the  water,  and  all  at  once  her  grasp  relaxed  from  about 
David's  neck,  her  arms  slipped  limply  down,  and,  but 
for  his  catching  her  to  him  suddenly  and  passionately, 
as  he  felt  her  slip,  she  would  have  fallen  to  the  ground. 

319 


THE   SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

Her  breath  shook  her  all  over  in  painful  throbbing 
gasps,  her  eyes  had  dropped  almost  shut,  and  from 
violent  scarlet  her  face  had  gone  dead  white,  with 
faint  ghastly  shadows  of  grey  and  blue  about  her  lips 
and  under  her  eyes. 

David  thought  she  was  going  to  die  in  his  arms,  and 
in  a  frantic  agony  of  fear  he  clutched  her  tight  and 
called  to  her. 

"Mary,  Mary,  my  sweetheart,"  he  cried.  He  laid 
her  down  by  the  roadside,  and  with  the  storekeeper's 
assistance  fanned  her  and  chafed  her  hands  dis 
tractedly,  crying  to  her  wildly,  again  and  again.  At 
last  in  answer  to  his  voice  she  opened  her  eyes  for  one 
faint  moment. 

"Don't  go,  Dave  —  don't  leave  me,"  she  panted  out. 

David  caught  her  up  against  his  breast.  "My 
sweetheart,  my  darlin',  I  won't  leave  yer.  Never, 
never!  Not  for  nothin'  —  nothin',"  and  suddenly  re 
membering,  with  his  disengaged  arm  he  caught  his 
pistol  from  his  pocket,  and  with  a  great  sweep  of  his 
hand  he  flung  it  far  away  from  him  into  the  green  under 
growth,  where  it  fell  through  the  leaves  with  a  tearing 
crash. 

"Sweetheart!  Sweetheart!  My  darlin',  my  honey  - 
I'll  never  leave  yer  —  never!"  he  cried  again;  all  the 
poignancy  of  his  love  let  loose  in  great  bounding 
waves  of  fire  that  tore  the  very  vitals  of  his  being  and 
utterly  obliterated  and  swept  away  every  other  emo 
tion. 

"Not  fer  —  not  even  fer  Kip?"  Mary  gasped. 
320 


THE   VICTOR 

"Not  fer  nothin'.  Nothin',  nothin!"  he  cried  with 
hot  kisses. 

And  Mary  knew  all  at  once  that  she  had  won  —  had 
won  without  even  Alderson  Cree's  message. 

She  shut  her  eyes  again  and  lay  still,  and  it  was  very 
hard  to  breathe,  her  ears  still  roared  and  the  black 
waters  were  still  upon  her,  but  David's  arm  was  about 
her  and  she  was  not  afraid  of  anything  any  more. 

At  last  the  colour  began  to  creep  faintly  back  to  her 
face,  changing  its  deathlike  greyness  to  a  delicate  pink, 
and  the  frantic  leaps  of  her  heart  grew  easier;  she 
opened  her  eyes  and  struggled  up  to  a  sitting  posture. 

"I  got  er  message  fer  yer,  Dave,"  she  said  feebly. 
"Er  message  from  ole  A'nt  Marthy  Lamfire.  O  Dave, 
listen  —  listen.  Alderson  Cree  sent  word  by  her  fer 
yer  not  ter  kill  Kip  Ryerson  —  not  ter  kill  him  — 

"What!"  cried  David,  "what  did  yer  say,  honey?" 

Mary  nodded  her  head  and  went  on  breathlessly. 
"Not  ter  kill  Kip.  Ter  make  yer  take  yer  promise 
back.  A'nt  Marthy  tole  me  all  how  hit  happened. 
She  came  erlong  by  ther  Maple  Spring  jest  after  you 
went  ter  git  help,  an'  there  she  saw  Alderson  layin' 
on  his  side  an'  prayin'  —  prayin'  out  loud  with  all  his 
soul  jest  ter  live  till  yer  got  back  so's  he  could  tell  yer 
not  ter  do  hit  —  Dave !  that  he  didn't  want  yer  ter  do 
hit." 

"I  knowed  hit  —  I  knowed  hit!"  the  storekeeper 
burst  out.  "I  tole  yer,  Dave  —  I  tole  yer  ef  he'd  jest 
hed  twict  ter  think  he  wouldn't  er  done  hit  —  I  tole 
yer  so!" 

321 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

But  David  stood  still  in  the  road,  his  eyes  astounded* 
and  his  face  white  and  amazed. 

" Good  God!"  he  whispered  as  the  words  came  home 
to  him.  "Good  God!" 

"An'  then,"  Mary  panted  on,  "then  while  he  was 
prayin'  he  heered  A'nt  Marthy  in  the  bresh  an'  he 
hollered  ter  her  ter  take  ther  word  ter  you  —  but  she 
wouldn't  let  on  she  heered,  an'  then  he  cussed  her,  an' 
when  she  was  skeered  an'  run  he  hollered  terrible 
things  after  her.  But  she  never  tole,  cause  she 
allers  blamed  him  fer  Ammy's  death,  so  she  wouldn't 
tell  yer  out  er  spite.  But  I  set  up  with  her  last 
night,  an'  this  mornin'  jest  'fore  she  died  she  tole 
me." 

"Is  ole  A'nt  Marthy  dead?"  the  storekeeper  ques 
tioned. 

"Yes,  yes,  she's  dead  —  she  died  this  mornin'  when 
I  was  all  erlone  with  her  —  I  was  all  erlone.  Mis' 
Cooper  hed  gone  home  an'  I  was  jest  all  erlone, 
Dave!"  she  cried,  her  terror  of  that  time  returning 
upon  her. 

But  David  was  still,  his  mind  groping  back  into  the 
past,  to  fit  this  sudden  revelation  to  his  last  remem 
brance  of  his  father. 

"George,"  he  said  at  length  with  shaken  breath, 
"You  was  there  —  der  yer  recollect  how  he  died 
wantin'  ter  say  somethin'  ter  me  only  he  couldn't  — • 
der  yer  reckon  that  was  what  he  was  tryin'  ter 
say?" 

"Hit  must  er  been,  I  reckon,"  the  other  answered. 
322 


THE   VICTOR 

"An'  I  jest  got  down  on  my  knees  an'  giv'  him  my 
promise  all  over  ergin,"  David  whispered,  "jest  all 
over  ergin,  never  thinkin'  hit  could  be  anythin'  else  he 
wanted." 

Mary  got  up  weakly  from  the  bank  and  laid  her 
trembling  hands  on  his  shoulders. 

"Dave,"  she  said,  "you've  flung  erway  yer  pistol, 
an'  I  know    yer    keer    fer    me,  an'    now  you've  got 
er    message    almost    like  hit  was    from  ther  dead  — 
won't    yer   promise   me   yer  won't  go   after  Kip  no 
mo'?" 

David  was  silent  a  very  long  time,  his  mind  going 
back  to  that  last  look  on  his  father's  face;  to  all  his 
arguments  and  struggles  with  himself;  to  Mary's 
pleadings  and  to  his  mother's  frantic  remorse. 

"Please,  please,  Dave,"  Mary  begged.  Her  face 
had  had  time  to  lose  its  faint  return  of  colour,  and  to 
grow  white  and  frightened  again,  and  the  storekeeper 
was  fidgeting  anxiously. 

David  laid  one  of  his  hands  on  each  of  hers  as  they 
rested  on  his  shoulders,  and  looked  down  into  her  up 
turned  face.  At  last  he  spoke. 

"I  promise  yer,  sweetheart,"  he  said  slowly,  a  pause 
between  each  word,  and  then  he  stooped  and  kissed 
her  solemnly  without  passion. 

Afterwards  the  three  stood  looking  into  one  another's 
faces  in  silence  —  the  silence  after  deep  emotion. 
Save  for  the  steady  soft  roar  of  the  rain,  and  for  the 
tumultuous  wind  gusts,  the  woods  were  very  quiet  and 
the  mysterious  faint  mist  which  the  wind  drove  here 

323 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON   CREE 

and  there  seemed  suddenly  dropping  a  curtain  be 
tween  the  three  and  the  outside  world,  shutting  them 
into  some  strange  remote  chamber,  even  as  the  revela 
tion  of  Alderson  Cree's  message  had  opened  for  them 
strange  and  curious  chambers  of  their  souls. 


324 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE   END   OF  THE   GAME 

IT  was  George  Hedrick  who,  first  recovering  him 
self,  broke  through  the  awed  silence  that  had  settled 
on  all  the  three  out  there  on  the  top  of  the  wet  moun 
tain,  swallowed  up  in  its  enshrouding  mists,  faced  by 
the  strangeness  of  circumstances,  and  bewildered  by 
their  own  emotions. 

"Well,"  he  said  shrugging  up  his  small  shoulders, 
and  returning  to  something  of  his  usual  buoyancy, 
"yer  runs  up  erginst  er  whole  heap  er  funny  things 
in  this  world,  an'  I'm  mighty  glad  yer  do  —  specially 
on  this  ercasion  —  but  hits  er  powerful  wet  mornin' 
jest  ter  be  standin'  round  thinkin'  how  cur'us  things 
is,  an'  seein'  es  we  ain't  none  of  us  what  yer  might  call 
dry,  I  votes  we  all  g'home  an'  change  our  close  an' 
then  take  er  right  good  think." 

David  and  Mary  shifted  their  positions,  and  draw 
ing  deep  breaths  laughed  in  weary  relief;  for  after  the 
long  strain  of  sharp  emotion  it  was  good  and  restful  to 
smile  once  more  and  take  things  easily,  forgetting  for 
the  time  that  under  the  blanket  of  the  world's  gaiety 
there  lurked  always  a  black,  hollow-eyed  seriousness, 
which  might  at  the  securest  moment  look  suddenly 

325 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

and  terrifyingly  forth.  Good  to  laugh,  and  for  the 
moment  to  forget,  for  had  they  not  laughed  they  might 
just  then  have  been  unreasonably  compelled  to  do  just 
the  opposite. 

"You  po'  little  honey,"  David  said  tenderly,  putting 
his  arm  about  Mary's  waist,  and  supporting  her  as 
they  started  down  the  mountain;  "you  po'  little  thing, 
you  must  be  most  dead." 

Mary  looked  at  him  with  wide  bright  eyes.  "Not 
so  near  dead  es  I  was  er  little  bit  ergo,"  she  answered 
with  a  laugh  that  quivered. 

Walking  behind  them  Hedrick  broke  into  a  shrill 
whistle,  a  whistle  of  many  flourishes  and  much  triumph, 
and  of  exceeding  loudness  —  astonishing  loudness, 
when  one  remembered  the  extreme  smallness,  not  to 
say  meagreness,  of  the  person  conducting  it.  A 
whistle  which  was  partly  to  drown  to  his  own  ears  any 
whispers  which  David  and  Mary  might  have  for  each 
other,  was  partly  a  stout  defiance  of  the  weather's 
unpleasantness,  but  was  most  of  all  an  expression  of 
his  own  supreme  satisfaction  over  the  termination  of 
the  morning's  work. 

As  far  as  David  and  Mary  were  concerned,  however, 
his  discretion  was  wasted,  for  they  were  too  subdued 
to  talk  much,  and  were  besides  too  shaken  out  of  the 
usual  ruts  of  reserve  to  have  greatly  cared  even  if 
Hedrick  had  chanced  to  overhear  anything  they  might 
have  had  to  say.  Mary,  morover,  was  still  so  physi 
cally  exhausted,  that  the  mere  effort  of  walking,  even 
with  David's  arm  about  her,  required  all  her  strength. 

326 


THE  END  OF  THE  GAME 

But  exhausted  as  she  was,  there  was  yet  a  joyful  peace 
and  relief  upon  her  —  a  peace  such  as  she  had  never 
tasted,  for  it  was  that  which  comes  after  fierce  effort, 
and  what  fierce,  passionate  effort  was,  Mary  Reddin 
had  only  known  since  the  day  before.  She  felt  as 
though  the  morning  of  yesterday  were  years  and  years 
ago,  and  she  herself  almost  an  old  woman  as  com 
pared  to  the  light-hearted  girl  who,  dressed  in  her  pink 
muslin,  had  gone  so  happily  and  so  gaily  to  preaching. 
And  it  was  all  true  enough,  she  was  older  —  older  with 
the  aging  of  circumstances  and  the  education  of  fear; 
and  for  her  ever  again  to  be  the  same  care-free  and 
unafraid  personality  that  she  had  been  was  as  impos 
sible  as  for  the  hatched  chicken  to  creep  back  to  its 
comatose  condition  in  the  shell.  She  might  be  —  nay 
she  would  be  —  gay  and  happy  once  more,  but  it  would 
be  a  gaiety  in  the  background  of  which  there  lurked, 
to  give  it  balance,  a  realization  of  the  seriousness 
of  life  —  the  realization  which  comes  only  with  actual 
experience  —  never  by  any  amount  of  greybeard 
warnings. 

David  too  felt  an  upspringing  of  peace  and  relief. 
He  seemed  to  himself  no  longer  blown  hither  and  thither 
by  every  varying  breath  of  his  emotions  —  the  play 
thing  of  love  and  hate  —  he  had  chosen  his  own  path 
and  the  weary  confusion  of  indecision  had  fallen  from 
him.  Circumstances  had  indeed  fought  for  him,  but 
it  seemed  good  to  know  at  the  last  that  he  had  been 
sure  of  his  own  mind.  That  he  had  made  the  choice 
for  himself,  knowing  that  in  the  end  love,  and  not  hate, 

327 


THE   SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

was  his  master  passion.  Therefore  he  went  down  the 
mountain,  his  head  held  high,  the  night's  dark  be 
wilderment  already  appearing  like  an  indistinct  dream, 
and  he  at  last  his  own  strong  determined  self.  His 
love  was  in  the  circle  of  his  arm  and  in  front  the  way 
lay  homeward  before  them;  the  calm,  the  quiet  way  of 
their  every-day  existence,  so  sweet  and  so  desirable 
now  as  compared  to  the  storm-tossed  and  passion- 
racked  paths  of  the  night.  And  if  in  this  new  tran 
quillity  there  was  also  a  certain  arrogance,  it  was  bred 
of  the  belief  that  at  last  he  knew  himself,  and  in 
the  knowledge  was  secure. 

The  world  seemed  water-soaked  that  morning  with 
the  high  wind  blowing  through  the  trees,  and  with  the 
remembrance  of  the  night's  heavy  storm.  Confronted 
by  the  drenched  outlook  of  wet  blown  trees  and  thick 
sky,  Mary  and  David,  after  the  deluge  of  their  own 
emotions,  felt  a  little  as  perhaps  Noah  and  his  small 
company  felt  when  they  came  down  from  Mount 
Ararat  to  the  clean  new  world  below  them.  In  her 
present  tranquillity  and  sense  of  security,  something 
of  this  thought  occurred  to  Mary,  and  looking  up  at 
David  she  whispered,  "I  feel  jest  like  I'd  been  'most 
drowned,  an'  then  somehow  come  back  ter  life  ergin, 
an'  found  everything  was  all  right." 

David  looked  down  at  her  in  answer,  and  after  a 
moment  would  have  spoken,  but  in  that  instant  the 
storekeeper  behind  them  broke  suddenly  off  in  his 
whistle  with  a  low  ejaculation  of  dismay.  David 
raised  his  head  with  a  quick  jerk,  and  there  in  the  road, 

328 


THE  END  OF  THE   GAME 

which  the  previous  moment  had  been  empty  and 
peaceful  before  him,  stood  Kip  Ryerson. 

At  the  sight  David  stiffened  all  over  with  a  sudden 
tense  quiver.  But  Mary  gripped  his  arm  tight  — 

"Dave!"  she  cried,  "Dave,  you  promised  me!" 

And  at  her  words,  and  the  clutch  of  her  hands,  David 
checked  himself,  and  with  the  relaxing  again  of  his 
muscles  a  long  tremble  went  over  him  like  the  sharp 
vibration  of  a  tweaked  wire. 

But  in  that  moment  Kip  Ryerson  made  a  fatal  mis 
take.  He  had  been  walking  carelessly,  secure  in  the 
belief  that  his  enemy  pursued  him  miles  distant  on  the 
other  side  of  the  river,  and  then  raising  his  eyes  he 
looked  suddenly  out  of  this  security  to  behold  him 
instead  directly  in  the  way  before  him.  David  Cree 
was  the  man  he  most  feared  in  all  the  world,  and  as  he 
came  upon  him  thus  unexpectedly,  with  the  startled 
panic  of  the  coward  his  hand  flew  back  instinctively 
to  his  hip  pocket.  But,  quick  as  the  gesture  was, 
David  saw  it  and  was  quicker,  and  with  a  bound  like 
the  freed  snap  of  a  bent  sapling  he  closed  upon  him. 

David  Cree  was  a  very  strong  man,  much  stronger 
usually  than  his  opponent,  but  fear  in  that  crisis  lent 
Ryerson  a  sudden  insanity  of  strength,  and  he  fought 
with  the  impetuosity  and  violence  of  terror.  There 
are  some  experiences  never  translated  into  words,  but 
which  rear  themselves  for  always  as  grim  monuments 
of  certain  emotions  —  and  for  Kip  Ryerson,  the  tear 
ing  remembrance  of  David  Cree's  fingers  at  his  throat 
had  come  to  stand  for  the  very  climax  of  fear  —  and 

329 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

now  met  again  by  that  furious  onslaught,  he  fought 
with  the  ferocity  and  anguish  of  fright  of  a  cornered 
wild  beast;  thrashing  himself  back  and  forth  in  the 
other's  grasp,  twisting,  turning,  and  biting,  a  mad, 
blind,  terrified  animal  —  fighting  neither  with  sudden 
anger,  nor  smouldering  hate,  but  just  with  the  black 
passion  of  terror,  and  the  poignant  love  of  his  own 
life. 

Thus  the  conflict  prolonged  itself;  David,  held  by 
his  promise,  not  putting  forth  all  his  power,  merely 
trying  to  disarm  the  other,  and  Ryerson  with  all  his 
frantic  strength  fighting  to  turn  his  pistol  and  shoot. 
Up  and  down  and  across  the  road  they  fought.  The 
little  pebbles  slipping  from  under  their  feet  and  flying 
with  tiny  splashes  into  the  undergrowth;  their  breath 
wrung  out  of  them  in  hoarse  grunts  as  their  bodies 
jerked  back  and  forth;  their  feet  making  long  struggling 
scrapes  in  the  wet  treacherous  road-bed,  and  the  grip  of 
their  hands  slippery  with  perspiration.  In  his  con 
trolled  strength  David  was  slow,  and  time  and  again, 
the  other,  never  still  for  the  flash  of  a  second,  twisting, 
wrenching,  springing  this  side  and  that,  writhed  out 
of  his  grip,  and  turned  like  a  wriggling  steel  snake, 
and  then  only  David's  quick  spring  averted  the  shot. 
And  always  crazy  fear  looked  from  Ryerson's  eyes. 

As  David  sprang  from  her  side  Mary  had  screamed 
piercingly  and  tried  to  run  in  upon,  the  two  men,  but 
Hedrick  interposed,  holding  her  off  firmly. "  "  No !  No !" 
he  cried,  "you  an'  me  can't  do  nothin'  now,  'cept 
wait  fer  ther  end  —  an'  keep  out  er  ther  way,"  he 

33° 


THE  END  OF  THE  GAME 

added,  dragging  her  to  one  side  and  placing  himself  in 
front  of  her  as  for  a  moment  Ryerson's  pistol  wavered 
in  their  direction. 

Thus  in  their  helplessness  they  stood  and  watched 
perforce,  themselves  the  only  spectators  of  the  con 
flict  ;  its  setting  the  steep  mountain  road,  the  wet  wind- 
tossed  forest,  and  the  grey  and  sullen  skies  of  the 
morning,  and  over  all  the  stillness  of  the  woods. 

Except  for  the  deep  catching  of  his  breath  David 
fought  in  a  silent  wordless  intensity,  and  in  spite  of 
his  excitement  it  flashed  back  upon  the  storekeeper 
that  that  was  the  way  he  had  once  in  his  youth  seen 
Alderson  Cree  fight.  Ryerson,  on  the  other  hand,  spent 
his  breath  in  gasped  oaths  and  hoarse  ejaculations. 
Once  David  had  him  almost  overthrown,  pressing 
him  back  and  back  against  the  bank,  and  he  could 
have  laughed  savagely,  brutally  —  for  in  the  prolong 
ing  of  the  combat  his  self-control  was  beginning  to 
slip  —  at  the  white  panic  of  terror  that  looked  out  of 
the  other's  face  and  bloodshot  eyes.  But  with  one  of 
his  quick  wrenching  turns  Ryerson  sprang  away,  and 
for  a  moment  he  was  free.  "D  —  n  you!"  he  cried, 
"I'll  kill  yer  like  I  done  Alderson!"  With  the  words 
he  fired,  and  David  felt  a  sting  like  a  hot  flame  graze 
his  forehead,  and  afterwards  a  crimson  curtain  of 
blood  dripped  into  one  eye,  and  ran  down  his  face, 
and  the  red  taste  of  it  was  in  his  mouth  and  David  was 
glad,  riotously,  furiously  glad  of  it,  for  Ryerson's  words 
and  the  pinch  of  pain  had  loosed  the  bonds  of  his 
restraint,  and  he  forgot  —  he  forgot  his  promise,  he 

331 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

forgot  his  love,  he  forgot  everything  save  only  the  mad 
passion  of  conflict  and  the  sick  desire  to  destroy  the 
man  he  hated.  And  the  taste  of  blood,  the  sticky 
warm  trickle  of  it,  were  what  he  wanted,  and  wrere  all 
an  answer  to  his  fury,  wrapping  him  in  a  scarlet  cloud 
of  passion,  in  the  midst  of  which  only  the  face  of  his 
enemy  hung  clear.  For  the  fiend  that  slept  in  David 
Cree  was  loose  now,  and  even  with  his  own  mad  devil 
of  fright  to  back  him,  Kip  Ryerson  stood  small  chance. 
Even  as  the  pistol  shot  deafened  his  ears,  David  sprang 
once  more  and  his  vice-like  grip  snapped  upon  the  other. 
One  great  hand  was  upon  Ryerson's  throat,  and  one 
upon  his  outstretched  arm,  and  David  bent  him 
slowly,  slowly  back.  Ryerson's  free  hand  tore  at  the 
strangling  fingers,  but  he  might  as  well  have  tugged 
at  iron  rods — and  again  he  went  back  a  little  further. 
The  epitome  of  fear  stared  out  of  his  bulging  eyes  and 
livid  face,  and  his  lips  were  blue  and  frothing.  Yet 
now  the  men  were  almost  moveless,  for  it  was  only  by 
slow  inches  that  Ryerson  went  back.  There  was  no 
heaving  struggle,  only  the  tense  meeting  of  muscle 
upon  muscle,  the  coughing  of  Ryerson's  breath,  the 
heave  of  David's,  and  the  slow,  very  slow,  going  back 
of  one  of  them.  David's  grip  was  like  the  steady 
clinch  of  great  jaws  snapping  tighter  and  tighter  upon 
a  bone;  and  presently,  inevitably,  suddenly,  the  bone 
would  snap. 

"Great  H — 1!"  the  storekeeper  cried  under  his 
breath,  and  made  a  half  movement  to  run  forward. 
Yet  in  the  end  he  checked  himself,  and  stood  still, 

33  2 


THE  END  OF  THE   GAME 

watching  in  a  stunned  breathlessness;  and  again  Ryer- 
son  went  back  a  faint  inch.  His  breath  was  a  chok 
ing  cough  now,  and  David's  eyes  had  the  wicked  set 
look  that  a  dog's  have  just  before  the  bone  cracks. 
Then  all  at  once  with  a  harsh  scrape  the  wet  gravel 
slipped  under  his  feet  and  Ryerson  went  down  back 
wards  upon  the  ground,  and  as  he  fell  David's  hand 
flew  along  his  arm  and  tore  the  pistol  from  his  relaxing 
grasp. 

From  then  to  the  end  was  scarcely  a  bare  wink  of 
time,  yet  the  emotions  and  actions  that  flashed  by 
upon  one  another's  heels  packed  it  to  such  overflowing 
that  afterwards  it  seemed  like  a  long  dream. 

David  stepped  back  a  pace  or  two,  steadying  himself, 
and  cocking  the  pistol  noiselessly. 

"Get  up,"  he  said  quietly,  terribly. 

And  dizzily  and  still  half-stunned,  Ryerson  obeyed 
mechanically.  Yet  when  he  stood  up  in  the  road  and 
faced  the  gaping  mouth  of  the  pistol  and  the  white 
blaze  of  the  face  back  of  it,  he  flung  his  arms  up  be 
fore  his  own  eyes  with  open  clutching  fingers,  and 
screamed,  a  hoarse,  a  horrible  scream  of  fear,  that  went 
away  on  the  still  air  of  the  morning  all  up  and  down 
the  mountain  side,  and  flung  its  anguish  of  terror  into 
remote  hollows. 

"Stand  still  1"  said  David. 

And  save  for  a  long  shiver  that  went  over  him  from 
head  to  foot,  held  in  the  very  paralysis  of  terror,  his 
face  shrinking  blindly  away  in  his  arms,  Kip  Ryerson 
stood  still  and  waited. 

333 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

For  a  half-second  David  paused,  then  suddenly, 
astonishingly,  with  the  conflict  over,  and  his  enemy 
cowering  before  him  and  absolutely  at  his  mercy,  his 
anger  went  out  as  instantly,  as  completely,  as  a  blown 
candle  —  and  on  the  instant  of  its  going  he  uncocked 
the  pistol  with  a  tiny  click,  and  dropped  his  hand. 

But  Ryerson  heard  the  click  and  misunderstood; 
flinging  his  arms  wide  above  his  head  he  screamed 
again,  that  frantic  anguished  scream  of  fear,  but  half 
way  through  the  cry  broke  suddenly  into  gurgling 
silence,  and  as  they  watched  him  the  man  bent  all  at 
once  at  the  knees,  swayed  a  moment  back  and  forth 
with  the  settling  tremble  of  a  falling  tree,  and  then 
plunged  forward  into  the  road,  and  lay  still. 

For  a  long  moment  the  three  spectators  were  silent, 
then  George  Hedrick  went  slowly  forward  and  turn 
ing  Ryerson  over  felt  for  his  heart. 

"He's  dead,"  he  said  at  length.  "Dead,"  he  re 
peated.  "  Just  natu'ally  skeered  ter  death." 

And  he  turned  with  a  shudder  of  contempt  from  the 
fixed  horror  that  stared  up  at  him  out  of  the  dead  eyes. 

David  drew  a  deep  breath  and  looked  about  him 
with  a  half-dazed  expression,  his  hand  rising  uncon- 
consciously  every  now  and  again  to  dash  the  trickle  of 
blood  out  of  his  eye. 

"Mary,"  he  cried,  "Mary,  I  wasn't  trying  to  kill 
him,  I  was  jest  tryin'  to  keep  him  from  shootin,'" 
he  broke  off,  looking  at  her  with  wild  eyes  that  sought 
justification  in  her  face. 

"I  wouldn't  never  have  troubled  him,"  he  went  on 
334 


THE  END  OF  THE   GAME 

distractedly.  "I  wouldn't  have  teched  him  —  I  was 
goin'  on  by  if  he  hadn't  have  drawed  his  gun  —  I  would, 
Mary,  I  would  er  gone  on  by  —  honest  I  would,"  he 
pleaded. 

His  gaze  wavered  every  now  and  again  from  her 
face  to  the  limp  figure  in  the  road,  and  he  was  like  a 
man  suddenly  awakening  from  sleep  to  see  the  last 
flash  of  a  terrible  dream  a  real  thing  before  his  eyes. 

Mary  took  his  hand  in  her  cold  little  fingers  and 
pressed  it  tremblingly.  "I  know  yer  didn't  mean  to 
jump  on  him  —  I  know  yer  was  goin'  on  by,"  she  said 
firmly. 

But  the  remembrance  of  the  overmastery  of  his  fury 
came  flooding  back  upon  David,  and  the  realization  of 
his  powerlessness  in  the  clutch  of  the  full  strength  of 
his  passion  appalled  him,  and  he  tore  his  hands  away. 

"But  I  was  — I  was  fightin'  to  kill,"  he  cried.  "I 
heered  him  say  'I'll  kill  yer  like  I  done  Alderson,'  and 
after  that  I  jest  didn't  keer  what  happened,  and  I  don't 
know  now  why  I  didn't  shoot  him  at  the  end,  'cept 
when  he  stood  up  before  me  like  that  an'  I  knowed  I 
could  do  hit,  somehow  I  jest  didn't  want  to  do  hit  no 
more." 

He  stood  back  from  Mary,  waving  her  hands  away. 
"Mary,"  he  cried,  "I  was  fightin'  to  kill,  an'  I  broke 
my  promise  to  you." 

He  said  it  passionately,  insistently.  It  was  as  though 
he  would  not  accept  her  love  without  a  full  understand 
ing  on  her  part,  an  understanding  of  that  self  within 
himself,  which  even  he  did  not  understand.  Yet 

335 


THE  SOWING  OF  ALDERSON  CREE 

though  his  hands  held  her  off  his  eyes  besought 
her. 

Mary  stood  still  looking  at  him,  and  in  the  look  her 
education  moved  on  a  step,  for  in  that  pause  it  came 
home  to  her  the  manner  of  man  she  had  chosen  to  love 
—  a  man  whose  passion  of  anger  came  and  went  as 
abruptly,  as  violently,  as  the  wind.  This  time,  in  spite 
of  his  own  sudden  horror  of  himself,  she  knew  that  he 
had  triumphed,  but  the  next  time  what  might  not  some 
twist  of  circumstance  bring  forth?  A  little  longer 
she  paused,  facing  with  clear  eyes  the  possibilities  of 
the  future;  then  she  went  forward,  and  taking  one 
corner  of  her  limp  wet  apron  she  pressed  it  against 
the  wound  on  David's  forehead. 

"Never  mind  —  never  mind,  honey,"  she  said. 
"You  wasn't  goin'  ter  shoot,  I  seed  you  wasn't.  And 
hit's  over  —  hit's  all  over  fer  now." 

Her  look  and  gesture  were  almost  maternal,  and 
though  her  voice  broke  there  was  in  it,  nevertheless,  a 
certain  new  note,  a  note  of  knowledge,  yet  of  strength 
and  hope  as  well,  and  strong  determination. 


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